The Moon of Innocence

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

2012-02-15T06:09:00.000-08:00

THIRTEEN

“The pig auction, daughter. Do you hear? The pig auction,” Salvador Ruiz shouted.

“Papa, please!” said Maria. “We only went for a ride. I told you. He wanted to show me his new scooter. I had never ridden on one.”

“And where did you go with that good for nothing boy?” asked Rosa Ruiz.

“That I must hear this at the pig auction is the worst. What is wrong with you, daughter?”

Maria jumped up from the plank table in the kitchen where she and her parents sat. “You do not care about me, either of you. All you care about is what the gossips say. You do not care about me at all.” She regretted her outburst as soon as it was uttered.

Salvador Ruiz was a squat, taut, compact farmer with a weathered face. He too jumped from his chair. “No daughter of mine talks like that to me in my own house. No daughter of mine acts like a pig so she gets talked about at the pig auction.”

He started to circle round the table toward Maria. “She requires a beating.”

He raised his meaty hand. Rosa interposed herself between her husband and daughter.

“There will be no beating today.” Rosa realized that the time for molding the girl’s character was long past, as was the time for repentance.

“I will teach her what comes of dirtying the family name. She should not even speak to the bastard, let alone ride with him on that thing. She needs a beating and a beating she shall have.”

Maria began to cry.

“She’s not your horse. There will be no beating.”

Maria was grateful that today was one of those days when her mother prevented her father’s physical violence. It was not always that way. Sometimes she was not there to stop her father. The girl knew she should get out of the kitchen, out of the house, as soon as possible.

Papa Ruiz slammed the table with his fist. Maria dashed past him. He reached to catch her by the arm but missed as Rosa again moved her dumpy body to block him. Tears streaming down her face, the teenager rushed out through the kitchen door, slamming it behind her.

Rosa glared at her spouse and he knew better than to go against her. While he remained a farmer during the civil war, Rosa Ruiz, nee Serra, had been caught up in the blood frenzy of the times. Though it was never spoken of, Salvador knew that his wife was capable of taking human life; and he was reminded of it every time he saw her take a hatchet to a chicken’s neck on her chopping block.

He went back to his place at the table and sat down with a weary, wordless grumble. He darted a glance at his wife. She glared at him. He looked down at the half-finished bowl of rice and sausage in front of him. He picked up his spoon without enthusiasm.

CHAPTER TWELVE

2012-02-08T09:39:00.000-08:00

TWELVE

Ella let her hair down, figuratively speaking, drank three more not-so-short scotches, and talked for the next two hours. Roberto was a good listener, the kind of person who spurred one on with questions that led to amplification of certain details which might lead to a tangential story within the story, and then query again to bring the speaker back to the main narrative thread.

“But what did this divorce court judge say, finally?

“Hah! He looked down at me and said ‘Mrs. Carlisle, since what you say is quite obviously

supported by fact, I believe I should award you custody of the horses, and the alimony you seek.’”

“And did he?”

“All I wanted was out of the marriage and never ever again to see that man I’d been foolish enough to marry. Attempting to collect alimony from Harry would have been an absolutely futile effort. I certainly didn’t want the damn horses.”

“Fascinating.”

“Maybe to you. In the United States, divorce is becoming commonplace.”

“Yes. Well, it began with your movie stars, I suppose. But that’s not what I mean. The way you tell your story is fascinating. Have you ever thought of writing it all down? I’m sure there’s much more.”

“Oh, there is. My original plan when I came here was,” Ella took on a stagey, exaggerated voice, “to write my memoirs in blessed seclusion.”

“And?”

“And they don’t quite seem to come alive on the page. I’m not much of a writer. Apparently I need a couple of drinks to be witty and captivating; and once I have a couple drinks, I never feel like writing so much as talking. Speaking of talking, I’d like to pick your brain, if I may – picking someone’s brain is a colloquial expression in English. It means . . .”

“I’m familiar with the phrase. Go ahead. What would you like to ask?”

“What language do I hear people speaking to each other here? Is it a dialect? When I speak Spanish to them, they reply and I understand. But usually when people are talking to each other, I don’t understand a word they’re saying. My Spanish language skills may not be great, but they’re not that bad.”

“The people here speak Catalan. This is Catalonia.”

“Catalan?”

“You mean you did not know?”

“No. That’s why I’m asking. Please fill me in.”

“Catalonia was its own kingdom, for centuries. Catalan is s a unique language, but a dying one. It is unlikely to survive until the end of this century. Franco would like to see the entire country united with a common tongue. And he’s right. I can speak Catalan fairly well, but it is a medieval tongue that has outlived its usefulness.”

“You’re saying it’s an entirely different language than Spanish?”?”

“Yes. Though there are some similarities to Spanish, and common words as well. But in truth, it is more like the French spoken in the time of the troubadours.”

“I feel like a complete idiot,” said Ella, shaking her head in disbelief at the extent of her own ignorance about this place she had chosen to live. She wondered what this elegant man must think of her. She drained her glass.

“How about another drink?”

“I’m afraid another drink would make the short walk to my house more dangerous than it really is.” Roberto stood to leave. “I have intruded on your blessed seclusion long enough. I hope you will be kind enough to tell me more of your stories in the future.”

Ella got to her feet and wobbled in the process. “Are you kidding? You’re not intruding. Not at all. Geez, without you I’d still think I was in Spain.”

“Oh, you are in Spain.”

“But you know what I mean,” said Ella, who was feeling tipsy and realizing it and she wondered how obvious her condition was.

“Can you believe what a silly American I am?”

“I don’t find you silly at all, Ella. In any case, it is time for this evening to draw to a close. This wonderful whiskey has gone to my head.”

“The whiskey is probably why you don’t think I’m silly.” Ella patted her fingers with her lips and giggled. “Hey, you’ll come back, right? You’ll visit again?” Ella didn’t care now if she sounded desperate.

“If the invitation is sincere, you will not be able to keep me away.”

“Great. How about lunch on Sunday? Is that sincere enough for you?”

“I look forward to it with pleasure. Thank you.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

2012-02-03T12:37:00.001-08:00

ELEVEN

Each of them raised their glass and Roberto said, “To neighbors.”

“Yes indeed. To neighbors.”

Roberto took a swig and let the liquor roll over his tongue, savoring the taste before swallowing. “Mmmmn. That is good.”

Ella sipped and smiled. “So tell me about yourself, Roberto. Is that a Spanish accent? Are you a native of this region?”

“I am from Venezuela.”

“How interesting.” Ella took another sip. “Oh. I should have offered. I have ice if you would like some. I’ve taken to drinking without it.”

“Ice with this scotch? Never. Please. Let me propose another toast – to the absence of the superfluous.”

“Yes. To the absence of the superfluous. I like that, and it couldn’t be more appropriate living here, as I’ve discovered.”

“I admit I was surprised to hear that an English woman was building a house here. The construction began before I left. But it seemed there was no opportunity to introduce myself at that time. And now I discover that you are not English, but American. Correct? That is an American accent, rather than Canadian.”

“Yes. Very American. I’m from Maryland, if you know where that is. It’s a state.”

“Yes. I’m familiar with the place name, though I’ve never been to your country.”

“Oh. You must go sometime.”

“Perhaps.”

Ella pushed ahead with the conversation. “So tell me, Roberto, do you travel often?”

“I represent my family’s business interests here in Europe. I travel when I must.”

“I’ve found it to be off the beaten track here, perhaps more so than I expected when I took the plunge and built this place.”

“Off the beaten track suits me. I often find myself in cities – Roma, Amsterdam, Lisbon, Paris, and Madrid, of course.”

“Of course. What line are you in, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I run around the continent signing shipping invoices and transfers and letters of credit.” He took another sip of his drink. “It’s all very boring. Tell me about yourself. Ella is a very pretty name.”

“I was named after my father’s mother.”

“Ah. I see. And how did an American woman named after her grandmother come to be living in Catalonia?”

“Do you want the whole story or the Reader’s Digest condensed version?”

“It is early. I have nowhere else to go, and certainly nowhere else would have such fine whiskey, or such lovely company. But as you wish, please.”

“Friends in England recommended it for the climate and affordability. As soon as my second divorce was final, I left the United States and came here. My plan . . .”

“Your second divorce? You hardly look old enough to be a bride.”

Ella’s responsive laugh was a trill in the night. “That must be the light, or the absence of it. And if you’re trying to charm me, Roberto, you’re succeeding.”

Roberto stiffened and his reply seemed sharp. “Not at all. Please.”

Whoops, thought Ella, too much too fast. She tried to counter. “You must understand, if you’re going to flatter me, I’m going to like it.”

Roberto tossed back the Scotch, set down his glass and stood. “This is not going as I expected. Perhaps we should postpone our talk until another time. I thank you for the drink.”

“Sit back down, Mr. Palacios. You can’t drink my scotch and run. I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m desperate for company. You asked to hear my story and now you’re going to hear it. We’re neighbors. Don’t start things off by being a boor. Chalk it up to me being an awkward American and let it go at that, please. You’re acting silly. We’re adults, for goodness sakes.”

“You’re quite right, Ella,” he said as he sat again. “I hope you will forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Now, please, pour yourself another drink. And make it a big one. This may take awhile.”

CHAPTER TEN

2012-01-26T08:51:00.000-08:00

TEN

Ella saw the tall figure approaching at the same moment that he spoke. He had enough of an accent that there was no mistaking English as his native tongue. “Hello. I’m your neighbor. I saw your lights through the trees. It occurs to me that we both might want some company. We have the same gardener, by the way.”

He started up the steps to the front door as Ella spluttered at this turn of events.

“Yes. Yes please come in.” She hurried back through the living room and down the hallway to the door to greet him. “Hello. Welcome. You speak English.”

“Yes. I know,” answered the visitor with a chuckle. He stuck out his hand. “My name is Roberto Palacios. I live just up the hill from you.”

“You’re the mysterious Don Roberto I’ve been hearing about,” she said as she led him down the hallway and into the lantern lit living room.

“Not so mysterious. Not as mysterious as the Inglesa, certainly.” She did not respond and he realized she had no idea what the locals called her. He looked around as he followed Ella. “This is very nice, very modern,” he said.

“Other than the absence of electricity, you mean.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m used to that, obviously. There are cities if I desire such convenience. Here is a place to rest, to enjoy the peace of nature.”

Ella led him onto the terrace and offered him a chair. Before sitting he looked down at the swimming pool from the balustrade. “I heard you had a swimming pool. Has anyone done a high dive from here yet?”

“Oh no. And please don’t be the first. You’re welcome to swim anytime, of course. But high diving is against the rules.” She smiled.

“Rules?”

“All pools have rules,” she said. “At least where I come from they do.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I’m being a terrible hostess. Will you have a drink with me, please?” As soon as she said it, Ella realized the “please” came out with the tone of begging. Her guest either ignored it or did not notice.

“That would be very nice.”

“Wine or whiskey? I’m afraid that’s the extent of my selection.”

“Whiskey will be nice. Thank you.”

“It is a single malt scotch. So there’s that. I had a case shipped in with my belongings.”

“I’m surprised it made it through customs. By all means, a single malt scotch will be most appreciated.”

“Oh good. I’ll be right back.”

She was back on the terrace momentarily, with a glass in one hand and the scotch bottle in the other. Roberto meanwhile had draped himself into a wicker and bent cane chair with thick cushions. She set the bottle and glass on the round wicker side table next to Roberto. “You’re not joining me?” he asked, sounding disappointed.

“Oh yes I am. I was having my allotted one drink of the evening and lamenting drinking alone, when you arrived,” said Ella, a slight burble of joy in her voice as she settled onto her chaise longue and picked up her glass from the tiled floor where she had set it upon rising to greet her guest. “And now I’m not alone.”

CHAPTER NINE

2012-01-19T07:52:00.000-08:00

NINE

Ella sat on her tiled terrace overlooking the pool, smoking her single cigarette of the day and sipping a whiskey, no ice. She hated drinking alone but had no choice. She limited herself to a single drink to accompany her daily coffin nail. Through the open French doors at her back the hiss of a gas lantern was only just audible, its cast circle of light scribing an arc to the midway point of the room.

For not the first time, Ella wondered what had possessed her to build a modern style villa in what she was coming to think of as the most backward region of Spain, even though she was anything but cognizant of the state of the rest of that Iberian nation. There was no electricity and no telephone, though the real estate agent had assured her the poles and lines would be there before construction was complete. Of course, that was before construction began.

During the building process Ella discovered that the only two people who knew about the impending progress toward full electrification of the region were she and said real estate sales agent. She discovered this during one of her Barcelona-based architect’s rare visits to the building site, which happened to coincide with a visit of her own.

“Miguel, I don’t see any electrical outlets or any wiring at all for that matter.”

The architect looked puzzled. “Why would you want that, Senora Clark?” He insisted on calling her Senora, though her marriage was well-dissolved and Clark was her maiden name. There was no correcting the man on this point, though.

“What amenities people have here are all gas powered,” he said.

“Gas?”

“Butano. Compressed natural gas. Surely you have seen the refilling stations? And the orange tanks?”

“Gas?” she repeated, somewhat stunned. “But the electric power lines are coming.”

The architect shook his head negatively. “I think not.”

“When I purchased the land, I was told there would be electricity soon.”

The architect looked around to see if anyone was listening but the only workers that day were the man tiling the inside floors and his assistant, and Ella and Miguel were outside and down the slope from the stairway to the front door. In any case, the architect was speaking his halting English and as Ella had discovered, none of the workers spoke a word of her native tongue. They spoke to her in Spanish but seemed to speak their own dialect when working. Even so, the architect spoke softly. “It is unlikely that electricity will come to this part of the country anytime soon. El Caudillo is in excellent health.”

It was that conversation, which she now knew in her heart of hearts, as she liked to say, she should have had before building commenced. She realized that the arrival of electricity in this region of Spain was anything but imminent. The absence of electrical power kept the Catalan countryside right where Generalissimo Francisco Franco liked it – under his prodigious dictatorial thumb.

Ella’s personal predicament led her to overlook the politics of Spain, which she still failed to understand these many months since the villa was complete and she moved in. The architect, who had been in a hurry to get back to Barcelona and end this vaguely seditious conversation with the foreigner, reminded his client that he had questioned her choice of location and his objections had been overruled without discussion.

Her realization came at far too late a juncture to change anything; and Ella being Ella, she knew she would adapt. The architect recommended a department store in Barcelona which carried all manner of gas-powered appliances; or, he added, his discomfort evident in the face of his client’s bewilderment as to how she would live without electrical power, there might be a dealership in the local town; though she should be prepared to select from a catalogue, as the inventory would be slight. She never saw the architect again, the remainder of their business having been concluded by mail.

Ella imagined at the time of purchase that she would enjoy the seclusion. She must have been in some kind of shock. Her ex had left her in reduced circumstances, his penchant for backing dry hole oil drilling efforts in the Southwest exceeded only by his habit of placing large bets on slow horses. Fortunately, her father had placed a fair bit of her money in a trust. The trust administrator, her father’s cousin and attorney, broke the news to her at a meeting in his Boston office. “Unless you plan on starting a salaried career, such as teaching perhaps, I suggest you find someplace warm, sunny and cheap to settle down. We can work out a budget – lump sum for a dwelling and quarterly payments thereafter.” He named the two sums that sounded anything but ample and the term “expatriate” leapt to her mind.

It was turning out to be anything but romantic or poetic or any of the other adjectives with which she had labeled the potential for her life in reduced circumstances. It was lonely.

Spain was a logical choice. Before moving here, she thought she was fluent in the language. Latin America seemed too raw and violent, and anti-gringo. The memory of Vice President Nixon’s motorcade being pelted by crowds in South America was still fresh in many North Americans’ minds, Ella’s included, even though Nixon was out of office now. She had been to Mexico often enough with her family to know that it was no place for an unattached woman. Spain meant Europe and all the concomitant trappings of civilization; or so she had imagined.

Her choice for a new domicile had been even more impulsive and grounded in less research than her choice to live in a Fascist dictatorship where memories of a bitter civil war kept old resentments simmering. Ella had as little grasp of the culture she was about to settle into as she did of any politics not writ in the boldest face headlines – in English, of course.

The real estate agent, who doubled as an attorney, was more than happy to keep her ignorant of the facts. For example, one hour from Barcelona by automobile was a far different matter than living in New Jersey for proximity to Manhattan. So she now found herself living an isolated existence as complete in its insularity as would have been, and in fact was, unimaginable to Ella a year previous.

Ella was startled from her reverie by the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel bed of her steep driveway. She sat up straight and listened. She stood, then walked to thick balustrade of the terrace and peered down into the dark.

She called out: “Hola. Quien es?” then “Who’s there?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

2012-01-11T14:29:00.000-08:00

EIGHT

Two days later Maria was walking the short distance from the Inglesa’s driveway to the top of the lane leading to her own home. Her shoulder bag swung beneath her arm. A breeze rustled through the tree limbs overhead. She heard the putt putt of a motor scooter slowly approaching from behind, and did not turn to look. Cesar passed her and she did a double take as he stopped and straddled the bike.

“What have you done to your scooter?”

“I painted it.”

“But why?”

“Since you forbid me to speak the words I feel, I will let these flowers proclaim to the whole world my love for you.”

“Cesar, you must stop saying this.”

“The flowers will say it for me. The truth cannot be hidden.”

Maria circled the scooter, looking at his handiwork. “You have a certain silliness that I like.”

“Silliness? Hmmn. That is a beginning. Will you ride with me?”

Maria’s initial protestation at this idea was quickly overcome by Cesar’s coaxing and her sense of curiosity. She hid her basket in the weeds at the base of one of the roadside trees. Bunching her skirt between her legs and tucking it beneath her rump, she mounted the cycle behind Cesar. “Hold on,” he said.

Realizing there was little alternative, she placed a hand on each of his hips and a foot on each of the back foot rests. She was about to change her mind when the bike scooted forward. Soon it felt almost as if they were flying. Her long black hair flew straight back from her head.

The sensual exhilaration was like nothing else in her limited experience. The thrum of the engine vibrated through the bike and her body as though they had merged in some way, despite the jostling bumpity bumps. Her nervousness at being seen by someone who would tell her parents soon gave way to the overwhelming sense of freedom that is a universal reaction among youth discovering and experiencing wheels powered by petrol.

Cesar knew where he wanted to take her. Riding back lanes and other shortcuts, scaring a couple of rabbits along the way, he was there in a quarter of an hour. Maria was beginning to fear for the time but not her safety as the motorbike climbed a footpath through a wood on a rough incline thick with underbrush to either side. Then they were out of the trees and stopped and overlooking the sea from a high rocky cliff where a few tenacious plants grew among the fissures in the stone. Cesar cut the engine.

“Cesar, this is too far. I must get home. My parents will be furious if they discover I rode with you,” she said as they dismounted.

“Then don’t tell them. Here. Follow me.” He took her hand and tugged her along. They climbed over a couple of weathered boulders to a flat grassy patch.

“Who comes here?” she asked.

“Goats and the goatherds. You see.” He pointed. “The path continues over there. It goes up to a meadow.”

Cesar walked right to the edge of the precipice. “Come. See,” he said.

Maria found herself experiencing a sudden swirling dread. It was vertigo. “Cesar, get away from there. It’s dangerous. There is no fence.”

He looked back at her over his shoulder and laughed. “Life is good without fences. Come and look. It’s as though you can see forever. The sky and the sea become one.”

“I can see enough from here. Now please – we have to go back. Get away from there. It frightens me.”

“A fear of heights is a fear that you will jump.”

Maria gasped. “Cesar, do not say such a thing.”

“Why not? It’s true. To fear heights is to fear all that life has to offer.”

Cesar breathed in deeply, as though he could inhale the sky and the sea. Then he turned and skipped away from the edge like a two-legged goat. “I come here for inspiration. I used to walk. It was more than two hours by foot. Well worth it, though. I’ve written some good poems here. Now I can come and go as I please.”

“Then let us go now. My mother will be wondering where I am.”

Cesar clasped her hand in his. “Let me bring you here sometime when the moon is full, Maria. I slept here once under the full moon. It was spectacular.”

“It seems so dangerous. Please, we must go.

“Will you come here with me some night?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Ask the Inglesa to make an excuse for you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

2012-01-04T08:38:00.000-08:00

SEVEN

That same day Tomas came home from gardening at Don Roberto’s place to find his nephew hard at work painting red and yellow flowers on his new white motor scooter. The thin, gnarled gardener, who looked old well beyond his fifty two years, was taken aback. “Cesar, what are you doing? What will Don Roberto say?”

Cesar had purchased the motorized bike less than a week before. The boy’s savings from his occasional work at Don Roberto’s or as a field hand on some of the local harvests had fallen short by half of the amount necessary for the purchase. Yet, upon the Don Roberto’s return, he insisted that Cesar buy the scooter, and supplied the shortfall with a laugh at Tomas’s disputations in the matter. “Get used to it, Tomas. Soon all the world will have wheels.”

“Then I shall hope the world does not roll away,” responded the gardener, ever present small black beret atop his head of thinning hair turned the color of lead. His pants were once charcoal color and the shirt was once white. With repeated washings together, Tomas had rendered them a nearly-matched set. Both Roberto and Tomas were bachelors, and despite the difference in their stations in life, they shared a wary bond that went beyond employer and employee.

Tomas had been leery of his employer’s interest in Cesar. For several years the gardener assumed a perversion was at work and he kept close watch. This concern, however, was unfounded. Don Roberto insisted that the boy had a sharp mind. Nothing he got from me, thought Tomas.

“A boy such as Cesar needs access to more knowledge, more resources, than the local school is capable of providing,” explained Don Roberto. “I’m lucky enough to have plenty to share. Cesar is who I choose to share it with. It gives me pleasure to see him grow intellectually. I have no children of my own. Be happy for your nephew, Tomas. Be happy. With a little help and encouragement, he might one day make a lasting mark on this uneven world we inhabit.”

Roberto made his ample library available to Cesar, and often ordered books to suit the boy’s specific inquiries. Even when Roberto was away, which was more and more often of late, Cesar was allowed to use the Argentine’s library. Tomas was befuddled by it all. Poetry – what future could that hold; and yet already the whip smart youngster was receiving rewards for his intelligence and wit, as evidenced by the motor bike.

“Don Roberto will say nothing,” replied Cesar, applying a few finishing touches. “Unless he chooses to compliment my fine hand with a brush,” he added with a chuckle.

“But the machine is new, Cesar.”

“The new machine is now adorned with my personal stamp, and this is a good thing, Uncle.”

Tomas shook his had. Truly he did not understand this latest manifestation of Cesar’s different nature. It was a reckless attitude that provoked him to amend the motor scooter’s sleek newness, with painted flowers no less.

“Don’t worry, Uncle, all I have done is make this motor bike unmistakably my own. No one can steal it and everyone will recognize it as mine. A poet must be a public person.”

Tomas felt the same sense of dislocation that he always experienced when the boy spoke of being a poet. There was no precedent for it among their family. Tomas lacked understanding, and knew he lacked it and knew not where to find it. He was illiterate, a mere gardener among farmers, a servant to now two foreigners. When Cesar read from his scribbles, Tomas lacked all frames of reference and became mute. If he commented at all, it was to proclaim an absence of understanding on his part.

Cesar straightened from squatting beside the scooter and put his brush in a tin can of murky turpentine. “And if the wind blows and dust gets on your wonderful flowers before they dry?” asked Tomas. “Or suppose it rains tonight. We need some rain.”

“This paint dries very fast, Uncle,” said Cesar. “And you know that it won’t rain tonight.”

Tomas looked at the scooter, shook his head, shrugged and went inside.

There was no rain and little wind that night.

CHAPTER SIX

2011-12-28T06:17:00.001-08:00

SIX

Maria was uncertain whether it was appropriate the way most of her neighbors spoke Catalan so that the Inglesa understood absolutely nothing, and then joked about it among themselves. Cesar and his Uncle Tomas were the exceptions. They both spoke Castilian to the Senora. Cesar’s Castilian was elegant and perfect when he wanted it to be, not that he had much opportunity to speak with the Inglesa.

Now that Don Roberto had returned, Maria imagined that the Inglesa would have someone else with whom she could converse. This was a good thing. Maria was becoming fond of her employer. Don Roberto, she knew from Cesar, spoke several languages, English among them. It occurred to the maid that now she and Cesar both had their own foreigners, so to speak. This thought made the girl smile.

A car horn tooted outside. She heard a car door slam, and then the Inglesa’s voice calling her. Maria stepped out onto the terrace. “Si, Senora?”

In halting but more or less correct Castilian Ella said, “Please come and help me. I come from town and there is much to unload.”

Maria went out through the front door and down the curved cement staircase to the drive, where Ella was taking four rope handled shoulder baskets brimming with supplies from the back seat of her car. “Thank you, Maria,” said Ella.

Maria hefted two of the baskets by their rope handles. “Oomph.”

“Yes. Much weight -- but things we need, for cleaning, for cooking.”

“Si, Senora,” Maria agreed without knowing what she was lugging up the stairs. It seemed the Inglesa had unlimited amounts of money.

“It is very hot today.”

“Some people think it is springtime,” said Maria over her shoulder, as Ella followed with the other two baskets.

“Springtime? Really?”

“Not people. Only a silly boy.”

They entered the house and went straight down the hall to the kitchen – the only room Maria could remember being in, ever, that was painted pale green; possibly the only room she had ever been in that was any color other than white and wood.

“Would that boy be Cesar?” asked Ella.

“His reputation for silliness goes before him everywhere.”

Maria began to unload a basket full of cleaning supplies, some of which she only had seen before on store shelves. She shrugged. This all meant more work for her. She liked that idea.

Ella considered her words for meaning before she spoke them. “Men – boys – can be silly when they are in love. They can . . .”

Maria flared and interrupted. “My God! Has he spoken of this to you, too?”

“No. Cesar did not say anything. It is plain to see.

“How can he act this way? Has he no pride?”

“Maria, enjoy the silliness. Eventually it passes. Then you want it back.”

“But surely, Senora, even silliness has its limits.”

Ella laughed. She was feeling more and more comfortable with the act of conversation. “Perhaps. But not formidable limits.”

“Silliness is a difficult matter.”

“If you let it, silliness can be fun.”

They finished unpacking the groceries and stowing them in their places. When this task was complete Ella asked, “Have you finished with everything else today?”

“Si, Senora.”

“Good. Let me give you your money.” She opened her purse.

“My mother asked that you pay for eight eggs I delivered.”

“Oh my. I completely forgot. Here you go then. This is for you for this week,” she said handing Maria three one hundred peseta note and a five hundred peseta note – the equivalent at that time of about twelve American dollars – and far exceeding the going rate for a part time maid. However, neither Ella nor Maria knew what the going rate was.

Then Ella opened her change purse and handed over two duros – coins worth five pesetas each – saying, “This is for the eggs. Please tell your mother I’m sorry about the egg money.”

“This is too much, Senora Clark,” said Maria, trying to return one of the coins. A dozen eggs sold for one duro locally.

“Please give it to your mother and bring me some more eggs the next time you come. And do apologize for me, please.”

Maria laughed shyly, “Please Senora, you must understand. Eggs are my mother’s silliness. To her, each one is a miracle when it is laid and a tragedy if it gets broken. Do not concern yourself, please.”

CHAPTER FIVE

2011-12-20T21:47:00.000-08:00

Ella left for the market after going over Maria’s designated tasks for the day. It was a ritual that let the American practice her Spanish. Like much of the rest of her generation in Catalonia, Maria spoke Castilian Spanish fluently. It was the only language spoken during her time in school. At home now she spoke only Catalan, as she had with Cesar. It was her native tongue. In public, and now with the Inglesa, she spoke Castilian.

Maria swept and mopped and dusted. She washed the dishes in Ella’s sink. She scrubbed the seemingly spotless, tiled, combination water closet and bath. The Inglesa had her in to work three days a week and Maria sometimes wondered if the woman had a germ phobia. Maria often thought of her work as “cleaning the clean.”

Maria was not complaining. She welcomed the time away from home, and the pesetas. For the first time in her life, the girl had her own money. Most of her pay, of course, went to her parents. She was, however, building her own small accumulation of coins. What she would do with this treasure was the source of daydreams.

As she worked, Maria wondered if she would ever tire of this place, of coming here where everything was so modern, so gracious. The large dark ochre-brown tiles throughout the house were a pleasure to sweep and mop. Everything had its place. Everything was just right.

Bookcases stood on either side of the white rounded cement cast fireplace. French doors led to the terrace overlooking the swimming pool; and the swimming pool itself was an unheard of amenity, the blue bottom and sides matching the color of the Mediterranean. Then there was the framed art work on the walls. One of the pieces was an original watercolor by someone the Inglesa had said was very famous. It was a nude woman standing among flowers and Maria would have to ask her employer to cover it or to take it from the wall should her parents ever come to visit. To date, Rosa and Salvador Ruiz had yet to cross the threshold of this modern villa that had been the cause of bafflement and mockery among the locals as it was built.

A refrigerator, albeit gas powered as electricity had yet to reach this part of Catalonia, kept food fresh and made ice. Maria had never seen anyone use ice cubes as the Inglesa did; for that matter, Maria had never before seen ice cubes. She of course had seen large blocks of ice at fiestas.

The first time the woman offered the girl a drink and intoned “Con hielo?” as a question, Maria had no idea what she was talking about. She thought it was another of Senora Clark’s linguistic malapropisms. The bubbly, chilled Orangina with the piece of ice floating in the glass was an eye-opening surprise.

There was much about the Inglesa that was good. She was bringing the outside into a closed world of simple-minded farmers. She was a lady among the peasants.

CHAPTER FOUR

2011-12-14T06:12:00.000-08:00

FOUR
Cesar Rojas sat astride a motor scooter in the shade of an algarroba tree at the other end of the long hard red dirt track to the Ruiz farm. Cesar was a bastard. His mother had died during his delivery. No one knew who his father was. Everyone assumed it was one of the many foreigners passing through the region during the Second World War.
On some level, Cesar was always aware that he was a bastard. He considered himself an orphan. In his mind, his father died in the war or else he would have come to the aid of the mother Cesar never knew beyond the faded images in a few small black and white photographs.

His Uncle Tomas, his mother’s brother, was his guardian and they lived together on a small hard-scrabble patch in a two room cottage a kilometer’s distance from where the teen now straddled his new wheels.
Cesar fancied himself a poet. He was aware of the New Song movement in Barcelona. He had travelled there twice by bus and visited the cafes and was able to secure some of their writings. He even met some of the literary firebrands on his second trip. He was inspired and considered himself a part of this striving to maintain pride in the Catalan language, which Franco tried to suppress and obliterate. Soon, Cesar believed, he would present himself and his poems to the world.
When she came into view, he blurted out, “Maria! How do you like my new motor scooter?”
Then he kick started the motor. Maria stopped where the farm lane met the road to town – another, wider, rutted red dirt track. She watched as Cesar rode the bike in a slow serpentine path towards her, its putt-putting insistent and assertive in the quiet countryside. He stopped right in front of her.
“Come on. Get on. I’ll take you for a ride.”
Maria lifted her chin, stiffened her spine, and without a word stepped around the scooter. She continued walking toward Ella’s house. This necessitated Cesar doing a quick dismount in order to turn the bike around so he was headed in the same direction as Maria; the depth of the wagon wheel ruts in the road were such that the simple maneuver of reversing direction might have toppled the novice rider. He hopped back on and zoomed the few meters to catch up to the girl. Then he killed the engine, hopped off, and walked the bike alongside her.
“Don’t you like my new scooter?”
“It is fine.”
“I could ride this all the way to Barcelona.”
“Then go to Barcelona.”
“Oh, I will. I can purchase petrol along the way, if I run out.”
The two teens walked in silence for another moment. Then Cesar said, “I have a new poem for you.”
“Oooh. A new poem,” Maria answered, her tone mild but mocking -- but not so as to dissuade her companion from reciting. She often enjoyed his recitations.
“Really it is an epigram in the Japanese haiku style.”
“Oh? Are you going to ride your scooter to Japan, too?”
“Of course not . . . Please, listen: Now it is spring time / But here I am withering / away without you.” He looked at her in anticipation of a response. She said nothing for a few seconds.
“Is that all?”
“Yes. It is written to form.”
“It is short.”
“It is supposed to be short. The form requires it.”
“And spring is long past. How can you write of spring when the figs are ready for harvest?”
“So, my love for you makes me lose track of the seasons.”
Maria stopped walking and shoved her rope handled basket onto her back with her elbow. She put both fists on her hips.
“You cannot say you love me ever again. I forbid it.”
“You cannot silence a poet anymore than you can silence nature. Beauty makes the birds sing. It does not shut them up. Every note of their songs says the same – Maria, I love you. I love you. I love you.”
“Stop it!” Maria resumed walking. She was almost at the driveway of the Inglesa’s villa.
“I won’t stop, Maria. If I don’t say it aloud, my heart will always say it – I love you.”
Maria released an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. “Oh, Cesar.”
“Oh, Maria.”
“You know, my mother says you read too much. That’s what’s wrong with you.”
“What does your mother know of my reading habits? And who is she to say that there is something wrong with me?”
“She is my mother. She heard this from someone else. They say the reading has made your brain feverish.”
Cesar laughed. “If people talk about so little a thing as how much I read, then you must agree that my future as a poet is assured.”
They reached the foot of Ella’s drive. “Not if you write as though it is spring when the figs are ripe.”

Chapter Three

2011-12-07T05:45:00.000-08:00

THREE

Maria’s mother was clucking and scattering a handful of grain to her free roaming chickens, to supplement their natural diet of bugs and grass. Rosa Ruiz was in her early fifties. Beneath the brim of a straw hat her face was lined by the years of farm-wifely existence. Her figure was long gone and the shapeless black frock she wore did nothing to hide or accent that fact.

“Mama, I am going to work now.”

“Good. Ask the Inglesa for the egg money. She owes me for eight eggs. Eight. Don’t forget.”

“Eight eggs. I’ll remember. Should I take her some more now?”

“Not until she pays for the eight.”

Maria suppressed the playful, mocking grin that pushed at her lips as she took a moment to watch her mother feed the chickens. Then the youth crossed to the pig pen, puckered and made a loud kissing sound. A medium size porker rousted itself from the shade created by a corrugated tin roof lean-to. The animal snorted and snuffled and did a waddling trot across the pen.

“Hello, Cerrita. How is the life of a pig today?”

Maria teased the pig with the presence of the slop bucket. The animal responded with a series of oinks, grunts, snorts and slurps; then it tried to nuzzle the bucket through the boards of the gate.

“Leave that pig alone. You said you were going. Go.”

“Yes, Mama.” Maria leaned over the gate and dumped the bucket into the squealing pig’s trough. She placed the bucket on the ground outside the pen and began her easy-going amble up the long, rutted, hard-packed red clay track.

A low stone wall bordered the lane out of the farm yard to where a grove of fig trees stood on one side of the track and a stand of pomegranate trees grew on the other side.

Soon, Maria knew, her father would demand her presence there as the family picked the trees clean and carefully placed the fruits in crates for transport to market. The fig trees were heavy with thousands of small ripening purple and green globes, each the size of the clenched fist of a newborn baby.

CHAPTER TWO

2011-11-30T05:39:00.000-08:00

TWO

The Ruiz farm was neither prosperous nor poor. The terra cotta tiles on the roof were in good repair. Bright Mediterranean blue shutters bordered each window – a customary prevention against the evil eye; though Catholics claimed the color in honor of the Virgin. The same hue was on every shutter on every window on every house in the region, regardless of the beliefs, or lack of the same, within each dwelling.

The squat one story Ruiz farmhouse boasted two chimneys, one rising at each end. Built during the time of land redistribution, before Franco’s rebellion against the elected government, it was cement block construction that had been whitewashed perhaps a half dozen times in its thirty years of existence. The farmyard included a couple more rough buildings and rock wall enclosures -- corrales or mangers – for chickens and livestock; all built with stone cleared from the fields. Nothing but the house itself was white-washed. One enclosure was a pigpen.

Now there were no animals. Another farmer had come by sometime during the last two days. He took the laying hens, the cow and the horse. Old Man Ruiz would be welcome to reclaim them, if and when he ever returned. The pig was already dead.

Tilled green fields of winter cover crops fanned out in three directions. The occasional tree or cactus punctuated the fields. The house, though, looked dead, abandoned. Or was that Ella’s imagination? Most likely, she told herself. Why would the house look any different today?

Six months before, if one were spying through the glass windows set in the whitewashed block walls, this house was alive with the energy and promise that only the presence of youth can generate. Maria, a classical Mediterranean beauty – black hair, pale skin and dark, fiery eyes – could transform the light in a room when she entered. This seventeen year old brimmed with optimism and joy.

Maria was making her own money, for the first time in her life, working across the road as the Inglesa’s maid. Maria knew that Ella was American, not English; but like everyone else locally, the teen thought of her employer as the Inglesa. The woman was an anomaly, an outsider in a long-closed society. She spoke no Catalan, and only passable Castilian. Nonetheless, Maria was glad the Inglesa built her villa so close to the family farm. The foreigner’s presence conveyed a strange but special status that went beyond having a job; though the job was enough in and of itself to brighten the girl’s outlook about most things.

From where it hung on a peg near the door Maria grabbed her rope handled straw basket – the ubiquitous carryall that served as pocketbook, shopping bag, lunch box, or tool belt, depending upon whose shoulder did the carrying. Then she picked up the bucket of vegetable trimmings and fruit culls from beside the kitchen door and headed out to the farmyard.

Chapter One

2011-11-23T10:40:00.000-08:00

ONE
Ella scrubbed hard at the large reddish
brown blood stain on the wall next to her bed.
She was wearing rubber gloves. The air around
her smelled of chlorine bleach. The windows were
open and a breeze kept the air moving. It was
already hot at mid-morning.
Ella was beginning to perspire from
exerting herself with the stiff-bristle scrub brush.
She paused from her task and wiped beads of
sweat from her forehead with the back of her
forearm. Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose
bun and piled under a kerchief.
She shuddered yet again at the thought of
death so close. She scrubbed harder at the blood. It
was all too unreal and all too real at the same time.
Each pass over the stain seemed less
effective than the previous. It was as though the
wall was permanently marked with blood. She
wondered if she had made things worse, with
rivulets of an unpleasant diluted color running
everywhere down the wall and over the brown
tiled floor.

She grabbed a wet rag and stopped the
flow and wiped upward once again. The task was
becoming exasperating. She sighed and picked up
the scrub brush.
A light rap of knuckles on the open bedroom door startled Ella. She dropped the brush and it bounced on the tiles. She turned and saw Roberto framed by the doorjamb and got up from her position on one knee as the well-dressed, tall, and not unattractive middle-age man said, “I knocked at the front door. It was open, so I came in. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“Sorry. I didn’t hear you knock. It’s fine.” Ella sat on the edge of the bed and peeled off the rubber gloves, regaining her composure. She gestured at the blood stain and said, “Mystery writers never mention how difficult it is to clean blood, do they?”
“You’ll never get it all out. Have Tomas give it two or three coats of whitewash and it will disappear.”
Ella said, “Whitewash -- how appropriate.”
“What is done is done. You must move on. We both must.”
“Yes. Yes. It’s not my culture. I just live here.” She pulled the kerchief off her head and shook her hair loose. “Come on. Let’s have a drink.”
Roberto checked his watch. “I’m afraid there’s not time for a drink, Ella. I’m leaving today. I must go to Roma for several months on business. I only came to say goodbye.”
“Today? You’re leaving today?”
“Yes.” Roberto cocked his head and gave a quick shrug of his shoulders. There was a genuine sadness about him. “As I said, time to move on.”
“Here. Let me give you a farewell hug.” Ella got up from the bed and crossed the few steps to the doorway. Roberto could smell the alcohol on her breath. It was not yet noon. He wondered how long before drink would ravage what was left of this woman’s good looks.
“What happened this summer happened. Chances are it would have taken place in one way or another whether you were here or not, whether I was here or not.”
“Yes. Well, thank you, Roberto.” Ella shook her head and tears began to form. “You know, the locals won’t even look me in the eye in public.”
Her voice rose slightly in pitch and she swallowed in an attempt to achieve some control. “In the mercado, my purchases are made without one word being spoken to me. I ask for something. It’s handed to me. I pay for it. My change is handed to me. Sometimes I’m afraid that one day the people here will stop selling me food.”
“These peasants? Hah! Don’t worry. Money will prevail.” A car horn sounded at a distance. “I’ve hired a driver to take me to Barcelona. Goodbye, Ella. And good luck.”
“You make it sound so final. We’ll see each other again. Probably before you know it,” she said. “Maybe I’ll come to Rome.”
“Yes. Well . . . As you wish.” Roberto squashed a well-traveled Panama hat atop his thinning thatch of brown hair. “Goodbye again, Ella.” He turned on his heel and left.
Ella went to the open window, and leaned with her hands on the wide whitewashed cement sill. In a moment she saw Roberto going down the front steps. He looked up, saw her and gave a quick wave. He turned and hurried to the edge of the wood and disappeared up the path toward his house.
What a peculiar man, she thought. I and now he too is gone. At least he’s still alive. And he’ll be back.
Her gaze shifted to the familiar landscape – patches of sere red dirt between swathes of green. Across the road and central to the view was the Ruiz farm. Ella realized that tonight would be the third night since Rosa Ruiz died in this very room.