Carlos and Javier - Waiting for news

Mid July in central Spain.  A time when many are preparing to head for the playas or the relative cool of family villages.  Carlos was sitting with his “family” in their taverna on the corner of the street.  It was almost a week since Javier had collapsed.

Juan, the barman, was sweeping the day’s debris from beneath the counter.  A football game was playing on the television.  Carlos, Merche, Paco and Rico had placed themselves in the direct airflow of the aircon.  Merche was speaking. 

“He doesn’t want anything.  I’ve been every day and taken him fruit and he tells me to give it to the dog.  I asked him what he needed and he just said ‘Peace and quiet’.  He has no gratitude.”

Carlos smiled wryly and sipped his vermut.

“That’s why I haven’t been.” said Paco. “I know him.  If he asks for me, then I’ll know it’s time to go.  He’s hard work even at home these days.  I don’t know how you stand it, Carlos.”

Carlos gave a gentle snort.  His eyes, always moist, misted over.

“Juan!” Rico called.  “Four more drinks, when you’re ready.”

Juan had propped his brush in the corner and was trying to coax cool air from the aircon.  He pressed the keys on the remote control.  The louvres raised and then lowered, but the air remained, at best, tepid.  He gave up and took four fresh glasses from the shelf.

On the TV, of the teams scored, prompting replays from all available angles and the screen filled with the image of a player running to the crowd, kissing the badge on his shirt.  Ten pairs of eyes around the room engaged briefly with the spectacle, before returning to their conversations.  Neither team was Spanish.

Rico drained his glass. “Has anyone said what’s wrong with him?”

Carlos shook his head.  “Not to me, and Javier won’t say anything.”

Juan brought the drinks and instinctively wiped the table as he took away the empties.  “Tell him we’re missing him.” he said.

“Missing his bar bill.” answered Merche dryly.

The door opened and a man walked in pulling a case.

Carlos recognised him.  It was Javier’s son, Jose.

Jose looked around the bar.

Carlos called to him as the others made space around the table. 

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.  A beer.”  Jose took the seat between Merche and Carlos.

“You know Merche, Rico, Paco?”

“Yes.  We met when I was here before.”

Juan set the beer on the table and wiped his hand on a towel.  “We haven’t met.  Javier told me about you. Have you just arrived from Sevilla?”

“No.  I’ve just come from the hospital.  I went straight there.”  They shook hands.

“How is your father?” Merche asked.

“He’s comfortable.”

“Have they said what’s wrong with him?”

“All they’ll tell me is they’re doing tests.”

“He’s been in there for days.”

Merche looked at Carlos.  “Have you asked the ward clerk?”

Carlos nodded.  “Yes.  Same answer.”

“And she’s such a gossip.”

The others laughed.  The ward clerk was known as “Hospital Radio” for her indiscretions.

Jose finished his drink and asked Carlos if they could go back to the apartment.  He’d had a long day.  The others nodded understandingly.  Merche gave his arm an affectionate rub.

They walked the fifty metres in silence.  As Carlos unlocked the outside door, Jose asked “Does my dad ever talk to you about my grandfather?”

“Are you kidding?  He didn’t even tell me about you.  Your father is a very private man.  ‘The past is the past’ is all I’ve ever got out of him.  His father died during the war.  That’s all I know.”

“He tried to talk to me about it tonight.  He started telling me something, as though he was unburdening himself, then he wouldn’t go on.”

Carlos looked into Jose’s eyes.  “I’ve told you all I know.”

The apartment seemed strangely quiet.   Carlos put the coffee-pot on the stove while Jose took a shower.  They sat in the living-room, facing each other across a low table.

“Do you think he’s going to be ok?”

Carlos sighed deeply.  “I don’t know.  I can’t get anything out of the nurses.  The clerk told me they’re doing tests and that it’s his age.  Same as they told you.”

“How old is he?”

“A bit older than me, I think.  I’m seventy-four.”

“He told me something tonight.”

Carlos waited for the rest to come.

“He told me he’d killed someone.”

Javier had some history. Carlos knew that.  But he struggled to assimilate what he’d just heard with more than forty years of intimate friendship.

“Do you know about his mother?” Jose asked.

“Only that she died quite young.  She was married to an officer on the wrong side of the war.”

“My grandfather?”

“Yes.”

Javier and his son had been estranged until very recently.  He’d split up with Jose’s mother without knowing she was pregnant and left Andalucia.  He’d heard about the boy, but a lifetime had passed.  Less than a year ago, Jose had written to inform Javier of his own mother’s death.

Carlos poured the coffee.  He took out a bottle of rum and poured a measure into each cup without asking.

“He told me my grandmother was shaved and paraded through the town naked.  They made her drink castor oil until she was incontinent and forced her to walk through the streets.”

A sound came from deep within Carlos. “Oh, God help us.”

“She was raped, Carlos.  Not once, but regularly, by a policeman.  It’s because she was the wife of a Republican officer.  Most of the garrison stayed loyal to the Republic.”

“Javier told me that.  About the town, I mean.  In the end, almost all the men who were left were taken away.”

“Carlos.  He told me he’s the policeman’s son.”

The two stared dumbly at each other.

“And the rest?”

“He couldn’t speak anymore. He just lay in the bed with tears pouring down his cheeks.  Oh, Carlos.  I hardly even know him.”

Carlos’ hand was trembling.  Coffee was spilling onto the floor.  Jose got up and gently took the cup from him.

Carlos continued staring into space.  “We need to see him first thing tomorrow, Jose – just you and I.  Oh my God, the poor man.  All those years of carrying this around.”

Jose poured the coffee into the sink, turned out the light and went to his room.