A town on even ground, its people, not so much.
They are accustomed to having the wind blow in their faces. Accustomed to icy winter wind that cuts their lips. That pushes open doors and windows with its restless noise at siesta time. That vents their heads, covered with headscarves or berets, as a form of rebellion. That protects the ears, and keeps them from having ideas, otherwise they may become too wild.
In the town, outside politics aren’t important. But outsiders do come to the village to take the fruits of their land, which farmers and shepherds work to produce here. Trucks are now coming to the village to take away men’s arms.
Trucks have always come. Trucks of one colour or another take the younger ones away, to pick fruit from other lands, from richer areas that can pay what they would not otherwise receive. They come for young women, barely girls, to take care of the elderly or children in the city. Children from wealthy city families, who will be hugged by the hands of these girls who still cry, longing for the embrace of their own mothers. Who sing them lullabies that smell of onions, of windy villages. Lullabies about getting up early in the morning to go to the land in cities where the land is hidden under the asphalt. Peoples who bring out their saints if there is drought, if there is a bad harvest or epidemics.
It is in this village that new trucks come, this time green ones. Looking for arms, like they have other times; arms on which to place a weapon now.
Aurelio is the mayor and knows that there is talk of war. In the next village over there have been executions, right there in the square. He wears a beret with a frown, he comes from the field to work, he has already seen two lorries leave.
His mother, Eulalia, has had her hair in an impossibly tight bun since she was young, which lasts the whole day (who knows if it lasts the whole night too, or if even her husband has ever seen her with her bun undone). She is a woman of daily mass, of great and unwavering faith. She prays daily for her son, who is as sweet as honey, but not very fond of prayers. The parish priest doesn’t criticise the communists. So Aurelia confesses and asks him for help. Help for her son, who has put a gun in the back of his trousers, and who says that if anyone in the village must be killed that he will take care of it. He will not allow anyone else to do it.
The parish priest talks to Eulalia about his own fears. In other regions they kill priests or burn churches. Or even the richest families. Aurelio walks through the streets on his way home from work, talking to women who work in the fields because their husbands left a week ago with the troops. There are people who ask for vengeance. Most mourn. Grandmothers weep.
That week, the two richest families are organised to leave the village, hidden in a wagon full of straw. The parish priest stays, but changes house. Aurelio wields his gun, without drawing it, every few seconds,
‘Those of us who are left will have to organise ourselves so as not to spoil the harvest.’
Eulalia prays more than five rosaries a day, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by others, because in hard times the litanies console in a group. She asks God, and the Virgin, and the patron saint, and the choir of angels, and San Antón if you like (who is sometimes a bit of an animal), to take care of her son.
*
It is a day of icy, face-cutting wind when the troops arrive in the village. They go to see the mayor, to inform him that this area is no longer a communist zone. It is time to surrender, and there won’t be here any mayor who doesn’t approve of Franco. Aurelio bites his lip. The gun is confiscated, which, to him, seems strangely relieving rather than an act of aggression. With his hands bound, they take Aurelio to the town hall. There are people waiting there. Local people willing to take up his work. People he knows since his childhood, from playing in the countryside. Everything happens so quickly. The governing committee is set up, a handover takes place, and Aurelio goes into a locked junk room.
Everything is discussed and prepared. He hears voices outside but can’t make out what they are saying. Others from the village went to war, some have died. This is not the time to complain.
Silence falls. It’s been an hour, more or less. Time stretches and shrinks in our perception in a strange way. Somebody opens the door. It’s Félix, from the high street, the son of Cleofás.
‘Aurelio’, he says, ‘I’m the new mayor for now. This is a small town, everybody knows everybody. You could have been vengeful when you were in charge, but you didn’t go down that path. I have known your family since childhood. We need people to work. If you promise to keep the peace, you are free to leave. That’s how things are going to be from now on.’
*
The war comes to the towns in very different ways. Perhaps, with any luck, the wind will be able to sweep the bombs and gun battles out of a remote village. Even those internal vendettas. But nobody is free from the hunger, the orphans and the widows. When there is hunger, there is little talk of freedom. Perhaps the loss freedom is not the most urgent thing now.
Aurelio squeezes the new mayor’s hand with his head held high, but with his eyes fixed on the ground. Now without the weight of the gun on his belt, he marches back to the camp. The hard work helps him not to think.
Eulalia is sad and happy at the same time. Hallelujah prayers flow into her usual litany.
‘Those who have little to start with, have little to lose,’ Aurelio mumbles to his family.
He’ll keep his eyes on the ground for now.
This story was translated by Jack Caine and edited by Jasmin Griffiths.
Isabel Prieto Pacheco
Jack Caine is a twenty-something freelance translator from the Lake District, England who translates documents from Spanish, German and Italian into English on topics such as literature, other cultures, travelling and more.
Jasmin Griffiths is a Plymouth University graduate with a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing. She grew up in the south of Spain and after moving back to England decided to pursue her passion of writing. She has performed music and her poetry all over the country and also enjoys writing creative nonfiction and short stories.
This short story is part of a research project on speculative historical fiction in Ireland and Spain funded by the AHRC and the University of Plymouth.
Picture credits: Eduardo Ortín.
THE WANDERING BARD 