The Spanish Promise Read online

  She held the stone now, recalling how the joyous and horrific memories of that day intermingled, inseparable from one another and all conjoined by the mere few minutes that separated them. There had been no such thing as a good day or a bad day back then. Life had been marbled, a constant mix of both, and she had longed for the purity of a clear path. But now that she was on it, was it any better? She had picked her side but every day here was unremittingly bad, and if Miguel Modesto was to be believed and his words hadn’t just been propaganda – albeit their own – then they were going to grow worse. She was always hungry, barely slept, cooking and cleaning for the team, working for the cause from the moment she woke till she dropped back down here last thing at night.

  What did the protection of a man like him actually mean? A full belly and a soft bed? A day to walk in the park and see grass and trees again? Was all that worth it against what Paloma warned, the unmentionable her mother had never discussed with her but which hung like a mist from almost every man she met?

  And which man could she trust anyway? Why was he any more of a monster than her father, her eldest brothers, Santi. What made him any worse than them?

  Santi.

  He was dead. He was dead. When would it sound true? How many times did she have to say it to believe it?

  ‘Marina?’

  She looked up with a start, realizing she was rocking, the pebble in her hand squeezed tightly in her palm. Had she betrayed herself? Paloma’s voice was questioning, there was scrutiny in the word. With effort, she pushed a stillness through her limbs and slid the pebble under the edge of the box again. She looked up, hoping she looked careless and carefree, that her face wasn’t overwritten with the spasms of pain wracking her body like thunderbolts.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked. Luciana was filing her nails, a book open on Paloma’s lap.

  ‘Where’s Marta?’

  Marta? Marina looked at them both. In the shock of dealing with Modesto’s attentions and Santi’s death, she had forgotten all about her. ‘She went to get fresh tomatoes,’ she said quietly, even as a sudden cold dread replaced the fracture in her heart. ‘Why? Hasn’t she come back yet?’

  Luciana stopped filing. Paloma sat up straighter. ‘No. She hasn’t come back.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Ronda, July 2018

  ‘They’re just in there, señora,’ the driver said, pointing to the vast, over-scaled wooden double doors. ‘I will take your bag back to the house for you.’

  She stared out blankly. ‘. . . Thank you.’

  She got out of the car and stood on the cobbles for a moment, looking up at the round building. A magnificent bronze sculpture of a bull dominated the courtyard, the curved walls a dazzling white in the ferocious sunlight. She pulled on her wide-brimmed straw sunhat and walked towards it, making for the shadows the first chance she got. It must have been thirty-five degrees today.

  ‘I’m sorry, we are closed for a private tour,’ the ticket clerk said as she approached.

  ‘I’m part of the Mendoza party.’ Her voice was flat and toneless.

  He bowed his head in apology. ‘They are in the stadium, señora. Through the doors and up the stairs to the right.’

  It was hard to concentrate. She wasn’t quite sure why she was here, only . . . there hadn’t seemed to be anything else to do. ‘Thank you.’

  She stepped through the inset door into the outer courtyard that ringed the arena, her gaze blankly riding up the thick curved walls. A horse was tethered at the opposite end, drinking from a trough. Behind it was a series of low buildings with various stairways leading onto roof terraces, where several people were working in unison and operating some sort of mechanism out of sight. Behind them was a much larger, longer building with a sloping roof, and through the windows she could see the glitter of several chandeliers, a voice shouting out instructions from within. The royal riding school? It was famous throughout Spain.

  But there were other voices calling out, one she recognized much closer to hand. She turned right and stepped through another set of doors into the outer arc of the stadium itself. On either side, left and right, steps rose up in steady flights along the back wall, the timbers of the shallow roof which shaded the spectator stands looking like the gills of a mushroom from here. She went to climb the steps when she heard the voice again. It was Marina’s.

  She stepped forward instead and pushed up the latch of a vast wooden door in front of her; it led to a circular pathway that ran between the seating stands and the perimeter of the bullring. A wooden gate was closed and she opened it, her eyes up as she took in the sight of the dramatic colonnaded arches encircling the amphitheatre. She had never seen anything like it before. Of course, the generic image was familiar from old films, spaghetti westerns and Hemingway novels, but in the flesh . . . the sheer scale of it was impressive. She tried to imagine what it must have been like in days gone by, filled to capacity, the spectacle of colour, the pomp . . .

  She realized she was walking on sand, some of it going between her toes in her open sandals. Painted wooden barreras, or wooden panels, dimpled and cracked from generations of fights, were set atop the stone wall which framed the ring, with four larger boards, burladeros, set out in intervals in front of them on the ground for the toreros to hide behind.

  ‘Olé!’ The excitable shout came from above her. She stopped walking and looked around and up. Marina. She was up there? Charlotte frowned. It had sounded like she was down . . .

  Were the acoustics distorted by the shape of the—

  ‘Charlotte!’

  It was Nathan. He was standing up, his body tense and unnaturally still, like he’d been deep-frozen on the spot. He was with Marina and another man she didn’t recognize. For a moment, the peace held as she looked up at them all and wondered what they were doing up there.

  Then she heard the sound of chains, of mechanisms moving. She saw Nathan’s head turn and something in his manner made her go cold. A door was being lifted up, like a guillotine being readied, and suddenly she realized what those men on the terraces outside had been doing, what they had been lifting: more doors. Creating a secure tunnel – to here.

  ‘Shut the doors!’ Nathan began yelling. ‘Shut the doors!’ He was waving his arms madly, trying to get someone’s attention, but whose? No one could be seen from here behind the high walls; they had been designed to protect, to create a strong, safe seal.

  The man sitting beside him was speaking rapidly into a radio, standing up too now and issuing urgent directives. ‘Close the toril! Close the toril!’ He listened to something that was said, his face slackening. He looked over to her. ‘Run! Get behind the burladero!’

  Charlotte stared at him. She knew what he was saying. She understood his command. She just couldn’t seem to . . . move.

  ‘Charlotte! Get behind the board!’ Nathan hollered, his voice more like a bear’s roar, as suddenly she heard a terrible sound – deep snorting, heavy shoulders barging against walls, the stamp of hooves. Getting closer, closer . . .

  Here.

  She felt all the breath leave her as the bull ran into the ring. It was a dappled grey, lighter in build than she might have expected and yet still so . . . huge. It barrelled through in an awkward up-down motion, not yet noticing her, pawing at the sand and snorting wildly. It was stressed and defensive.

  She didn’t move. Nor did anyone else. There was just a moment of utter stillness as the beast acclimatized to its surroundings, taking in the sudden space. And then her.

  Her mouth dried up. There was nothing else now but her and it. She could see nothing, hear nothing. She wasn’t aware of the screams from the stands, she didn’t see the blur of motion as someone suddenly jumped down into the callejón pit, and up onto the defensive stone wall, vaulting the barreras and charging towards her. All she could hear was the sound of blood rushing in her head, all she could see was the animal beginning to run now, dipping its head, that vast bulk on stumpy legs, getting closer . . .

 
She felt hands slam into her, her feet leave the ground and suddenly she was in the air – for one, two, three seconds and then down again, landing heavily, rolling through the sand. She stopped face down, dizzy and disoriented. She looked up. The bull was still running. But not after her.

  Nathan was heading towards the far side of the ring, leading it away from her, twisting back to see where the animal was, the sound of its snorts like a wind at his neck.

  In sheer horror at the scene – he would be gored, trampled – she screamed for him, gathering herself up, her feet scrabbling to find purchase as she watched him run. He was agile, fit, staggering his direction like a switchblade.

  He looked over at her. ‘Get behind the board!’ he shouted at her. ‘The board!’

  She heard him this time and she began to look. Where was the closest? But they were staggered in quarterly intervals and . . . this stadium, it had to be seventy metres wide. Nowhere was close.

  She went to run but her ankle gave out from under her and she cried out. She must have hurt it in the fall.

  ‘The board, Charlotte!’ He had run out of stadium in the other direction and was running back towards her now. And that meant, so was the bull.

  She began running as fast as she could, the limp bad, but adrenaline pushing her onwards. The burladero was maybe ten metres away, eight . . .

  Underfoot, she could feel the vibrations of the animal as it got closer, the desperation in Nathan’s eyes as he charged towards her . . .

  Five, three . . .

  He reached out, grabbing her arm and yanking her hard, pulling her with him behind the board just as the bull slid and slammed horns-first into it.

  She screamed, trembling uncontrollably as Nathan pulled her into him, his back to the board and creating another layer of protection as the bull pawed and circled, snorting behind them out of sight.

  ‘Fuck, Charlotte! Fuck!’ he said angrily, the adrenaline still coursing, his breathing coming hard as he held her by the shoulders and looked her up and down, checking for injuries. She could see the panic in his eyes, the tension in his body as he checked and double-checked she was okay. ‘Fuck—’

  His gaze met hers, naked and true, and suddenly her world narrowed down to just the two of them behind that board – no bull, no baby, no wife, no reason why they couldn’t be what everything was telling them they should be. He kissed her with all the urgency that had impelled him to cross a stadium to save her, to outrun a bull, his passion a need that she be okay, be here.

  But they weren’t alone and the sound of the bull running again made them pull apart again, jumpy. Nathan tightened his arms around her like a wall, holding her head to his chest as he looked around them, looking for help. ‘It’s okay, we’re safe here,’ he murmured. ‘He can’t get to us here.’ But he was looking tense and every second seemed like a minute. What was taking so long? She was shaking still.

  The rattle of chains made them both stiffen as they heard the door being winched back up, hooves at a canter. Voices.

  ‘No, don’t,’ she gasped, as Nathan loosened his grip on her and leaned around the board to get a look.

  She felt the tension leave his body as he caught sight of the action on the other side of the boards. He pulled back in, looking down at her. ‘It’s okay. The picadors are here. They’re herding him out again. It’s fine. It’s safe now.’

  She stared up at him, the episode already running in a loop through her mind – the silent image of him leading the bull away from her, the tone in his voice as he’d realized what was about to happen, the look in his eyes . . . In that moment, he’d dropped the story and it had all been there still. It didn’t matter what he said or what she did, that he was married or she was about to be, they were connected by a thread of fire that hadn’t been and couldn’t be extinguished. She felt his hands press into her skin, his grip tighten as he stared down at her—

  ‘Oh my God, Charlotte!’ She heard the scratch in Marina’s voice as she ran along the callejón pit, stepping up on the low stone wall and leaning over the wooden barriers. ‘Are you okay?’

  Nathan stepped back, away from her, the spell broken, his face impassive but his eyes burning with confusion.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I . . .’ She looked around in bewilderment. Everything had happened so fast.

  ‘What were you doing down there?’

  ‘I thought you were in here. Having a tour.’

  Marina gave a surprised laugh. ‘We already had the tour. They were just bringing in the novice bulls for the horsemen to train with.’

  ‘. . . You’re saying that was a baby?’ she asked, beginning to feel foolish. Embarrassed.

  ‘Four-year- old.’

  ‘It was big enough from where I was standing,’ she murmured, suppressing another shiver.

  ‘You’re still shaking,’ Marina said. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she lied, her eyes flickering to Nathan’s and away again. ‘Think I might have a sprained ankle though.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard,’ he said, looking stiff, his reserve coming back down. ‘I needed to get you out of its way. You weren’t moving.’

  ‘Thank God you were.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know why I couldn’t move. Why couldn’t I move?’

  ‘It’s a common stress response – flight, fight or freeze. You froze.’ Their eyes locked once more but she could feel the distance between them widening again, normal service being resumed. He was married. She was about to be.

  ‘Come, we should get some ice on your ankle,’ Marina said, intruding. ‘I fancy a coffee anyway.’

  They moved to the cafe, Nathan looping her arm around his shoulder and helping her hop along. The manager – who she’d seen with the radio – ran to get ice and a compress, looking stressed. One of his VIPs quite literally having a run-in with a young bull was not what he’d needed.

  ‘We didn’t think you were coming back,’ Marina said as they rearranged chairs around the table to make a leg rest for her.

  Nathan looked down guiltily. Had he thought she’d taken him at his word on Saturday – fled from here, away from him?

  ‘Mateo thought it was best if I was here for the reunion.’

  ‘Yes, but Mayra thought you were due back yesterday,’ Marina said.

  ‘Well, I got a little held up. But the driver was taking me back from the airport and said you were here, so I thought I should rejoin you as soon as possible.’

  Their coffees were set down and Marina gave the waiter a delighted smile, as though relieved that for once she wasn’t the one serving it.

  ‘. . . I assume your grandmother isn’t here?’ Charlotte asked her conversationally, seeing how Nathan stared into his coffee, lost in thought. Was he thinking about what had just happened between them – again? How it seemed unstoppable, no matter what he said?

  ‘God, no.’ Marina’s expression changed. Charlotte looked back at her, hearing the note of concern in her voice. ‘She is resting again. To be honest, she is not quite herself here.’ She looked back at them both with a concerned expression. ‘I’m worried this has taken more out of her than she will admit. Perhaps it was a mistake coming here. I shouldn’t have pushed her—’

  ‘Marina, you didn’t push her – your grandmother came here because she wanted to see her brother again. She is a strong woman, here on her terms.’

  ‘Mmm, maybe.’ Marina gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘She just seems so . . . quiet, here.’

  ‘Has she left her room at all?’

  ‘Once or twice. They take her out in the carts and she goes to the garden or the stables. Then she comes back and rests for the day. There are so many memories for her. Too many, I fear.’

  ‘It’s bound to be emotional for her,’ Charlotte agreed, fiddling with the spoon on her saucer and glancing at Nathan again. Had he heard a word they’d said? He looked so . . . lost. ‘And she’s still said nothing to you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Has th
ere been any word yet when Mateo and his father are due to arrive?’

  ‘Tomorrow now. Apparently there was a dip in one of his readings they weren’t happy about and they decided to keep him in to run a few more tests.’

  ‘Does your grandmother know he’s coming tomorrow?’

  Marina nodded. ‘She has said barely a word today. I didn’t want to leave her but she insisted. I think she wanted some time there alone before Carlos arrives.’

  Charlotte frowned; they were still no closer to knowing the reason for their estrangement. ‘Nathan?’ Her soul stirred as his eyes met hers again. ‘Have you found anything yet that could help?’

  She watched him visibly pull himself back into the conversation. ‘. . . Perhaps.’ He tapped his finger against the coffee cup as both women looked at him, gathering his thoughts. His focus. ‘As you know, I’ve been principally looking into her husband – your grandfather, Marina. As a start point, I took a view that he may be the most likely antagonist for the breakdown in relationships between your grandmother and her family: his name, being foreign, immediately suggested he was one of the overseas volunteers in the International Brigades, which in turn meant he was Republican – and that would have been a big problem back then. So I dug around and, sure enough, found a Jack Charles Quincy, from Oregon. He was thirty-four when he joined the Abraham Lincoln battalion, one of twenty-eight hundred Americans volunteering to fight for the Spanish Republic. Thirty-four was pretty old for a brigader. Most of them were kids – seventeen, eighteen.

  ‘Anyway, he was one of the first wave of overseas recruits, landing in Malaga in the autumn of 1936, and arriving soon after in Ronda. It looks like he was tasked with coordinating a local Republican militia run by a man called Santiago Espe-ranza who had been an active insurgent in the area.’ He shot Marina a wary look. ‘In particular, he was known for his antagonism towards the Mendoza estate.’