‘And look,’ he said, pointing to the children in the second photograph. ‘You realise who these children are, don’t you? That’s Antonio, Ignacio, Emilio . . . And your mother.’
‘It’s extraordinary,’ responded Sonia quietly. ‘It’s really them.’
Miguel got up slowly. ‘I think you need a drink,’ he said.
Sonia watched him cross the room and a wave of affection for him swept over her. He returned with two glasses of brandy, and they sat for a while longer. There seemed so much more to say.
Sonia explained why she had been drawn to Miguel’s café rather than any other.
‘It’s the prettiest one in the square,’ she said. ‘But perhaps it was something familiar about the barrel. I think that picture of them all as children must have been in my mind.’
‘It was almost as though you recognised it,’ mused Miguel.
‘Well, it is a distinctive feature, isn’t it? And I have only just realised what the name of the café means . . . El Barril. I really must improve my Spanish!’
Sonia noticed the clock. It was one thirty. She really had to go. For several minutes, she and Miguel embraced each other in a strong hug. He appeared reluctant to let her go.
‘Miguel, thank you so much for everything,’ she said.
How inadequate these words sounded, but there were none that would have been enough. There were tears in his eyes as she kissed him firmly on both cheeks.
‘Will I see you before you leave?’ he asked.
‘My plane isn’t until the afternoon, so I have a few hours in the morning,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back for breakfast.’
‘Come as early as you can. There’s somewhere I want to take you before you go.’
‘All right,’ said Sonia, squeezing his arm. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Eight thirty?’
The old man nodded.
Just as Sonia was putting a key in Maggie’s lock, her friend came up behind her.
‘
Hola!
’ she said cheerfully.‘Have you been out for a secret salsa?’
‘Not exactly,’ Sonia replied.‘I’ve had a really extraordinary day.’
Maggie was too excited about her own evening to ask any questions. Though she was tired, Sonia sat up with her and heard all about the new man in her life. This one really was going to be special. Maggie could feel it in her bones.
Before they went to bed, Sonia told Maggie that she might need to come and stay again for a few days quite soon.
‘You’re welcome any time,’ said Maggie. ‘You know that. Just let me know when and I’ll make sure I’m here.’
After a few hours of sleep, Sonia took the now familiar route back to El Barril. Miguel knew she would be punctual and already had a
café con leche
waiting for her on the bar. Soon they were leaving the café and going round the corner to where Miguel’s battered Seat car was parked.
‘The place I want to take you is just a little way out of the city, so we need to drive,’ he said.
They drove for twenty minutes, negotiating Granada’s complex one-way system, passing along wide tree-lined boulevards and winding their way through cobbled streets scarcely wide enough for a single car. They skirted the edge of the oldest
barrio
and then the road began to climb.
They did not talk much on the way but even their silences were comfortable. Sonia was busy enjoying the spectacular views of the landscape that surrounded Granada: the flat fertile plains and the dramatic Sierra Nevada. No wonder this place had been such a prize for both Moors and Christians, she thought.
Eventually they reached their destination. Outside a massive ornamental gateway several dozen cars were parked. It looked like the entrance to a French chateau.
‘Where are we?’ she asked Miguel.
‘This is the municipal cemetery.’
‘Oh,’ she said quietly, remembering that he had encouraged her to visit this place once before.
As he was parking the car, a funeral cortège arrived. In addition to the hearse, there were eight gleaming limousines from which a large party of well-dressed mourners emerged.The women all wore black lace mantillas behind which their faces were hidden. The men’s dark suits were well-fitting, made-to-measure, elegant. The whole group walked slowly, sombrely, behind the coffin and disappeared through the gates, leaving the chauffeurs to lean against their polished bonnets and enjoy a smoke.
Miguel looked across at them and Sonia could feel that he had something to say. His voice had an edge. She recalled the hint of bitterness that she had noticed in her very first encounter with him. It had surprised her then and did so again now.
‘There were many people killed in the Civil War who were deprived of a burial like that,’ he said. ‘Thousands of them were just thrown into mass graves.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Sonia in a hushed voice. ‘Don’t their families want to find out where they are?’
‘Some of them do,’ he said. ‘But not all of them.’
They got out of the car and wandered in. Sonia was astonished by the volume and scale of the tombs. Graveyards in England were very different from this. She thought of the South London cemetery where her mother had been buried, and shuddered. It was a huge acreage of grass with row upon row of small head-stones, each space a coffin’s width and length. She only stopped to visit once a year, but always drove past it on her way to visit her father, and through the railings it was easy to spot the most recent graves.They still had fresh flowers, wreaths of gaudy yellow and orange, ‘DAD’ in red carnations or ‘MUM’ in white chrysanthemums, or the occasional heart-stopping teddy bear. With few exceptions, the older ones had nothing or a few dead blooms in a jam jar. Artificial flora were ubiquitous; those who brought them chose to ignore the notion of
memento mori
.
This Granadino graveyard was a very different place. Some of the departed here had tombs the size of small houses. It was like a village made of white marble, with streets and small gardens.
It was a place that invited contemplation and there were few other people here on this Wednesday morning. Neither Sonia nor Miguel felt obliged to make conversation.
The space was divided into several dozen separate spaces,
patios
, in each of which there were numerous large tombs, crosses and memorial stones recording the names of the dead. What struck Sonia most forcibly, apart from the huge dimensions of this place, was that no grave seemed to have been abandoned.
There were flowers on them all, which made absolute sense when she read the most commonly inscribed words: ‘
Tu familia no te olvida.
’ ‘Your family will not forget you.’
Most had been true to their promise.
‘Can I wander up there?’ asked Sonia, impelled to explore.
Miguel had stopped to buy a small plant at the entrance and she imagined he might not mind being alone for a few moments. She walked purposefully up the pathway that seemed to lead to the boundary of the cemetery, only to find, when she reached it, that there was another area beyond the wall. It almost seemed limitless this place, in both directions. She had no idea how long she walked. She was fascinated by the grandeur of many of these tombs. Some had angels that guarded the entrances to family tombs, fluted pillars and elaborate stone wreaths, there were ornate iron crosses as well as simple marble ones and everywhere - flowers. She saw a few women carrying watering cans and one with a dustpan and brush, doing the housework, lovingly sweeping particles of gravel from her ancestors’ threshold. It was one of the most touching things she had ever seen.
She retraced her steps and eventually found Miguel not far from where she had left him sitting on a stone bench.
‘Sorry I’ve been so long,’ she apologised.
‘Don’t worry. Time stands still here.’
‘That’s true,’ smiled Sonia.
She sat down on the bench beside him. It was late morning now.The sun was strong and they were grateful for a shade-giving tree. Opposite them was a huge wall. From top to bottom, there were six tiers of memorial stones. In front of each one was a ledge where people had placed small vases of flowers.
‘Do you recognise those names?’ asked Miguel.
Directly in front of them, second row from the bottom, she read aloud three names:
Ignacio Tomás Ramírez
28-1-37
Pablo Vicente Ramírez
20-12-45
Concha Pilar Ramírez
14-8-56
She noted the plant that Miguel had bought earlier, its pink blooms just brushing the letters of the last name, and next to it a bouquet of glorious red roses now slightly wilting.
‘It looks as though someone else has been to visit them too,’ said Sonia.
There was no response from Miguel and she turned to look at him. He was shaking his head.
‘Just me,’ he said, his old eyes glistening. ‘Just me.’
Sonia now had to ask the question that had been on the tip of her tongue since the previous night, when she had recognised the depth of his emotion on telling her the Ramírez family’s story.
‘Why?’ she quizzed him. ‘Why were you so attached to this family?’
For a moment it seemed hard for him to speak. He swallowed and it was as though he had to gulp for air before he could say the words.
‘I’m Javier. Javier Miguel Montero.’
Sonia gasped in disbelief.
‘Javier! But . . .’
There was only one gesture that seemed a natural response to this revelation. She gently took his old hands, and for a while they looked into the watery depths of each other’s eyes. Sonia recognised what Mercedes had seen all those years earlier, and Javier gazed at the reflection of Mercedes that he saw in the face of her daughter.
Eventually Sonia spoke.
‘Javier,’ she said. It seemed strange to use this name now and the old man interrupted her.
‘Call me Miguel,’ he said. ‘I’ve used the name for so long now. Ever since I first arrived back at El Barril.’
‘Of course, if that’s what you prefer, Miguel,’ said Sonia. There were so many burning questions, but she did not wish to cause him any more pain.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ she asked gently. ‘When did you come back to Granada?’
‘I was released from my duties at El Valle de los Caídos - the Valley of the Fallen - in 1955,’ he said. ‘I had “redeemed myself through labour”, that’s what they said. The fact that I hadn’t committed a crime in the first place was neither here nor there. I turned up at El Barril one day, completely unannounced. I had no family left in Málaga or in Bilbao, and I was physically destroyed by my time at Cualgamuros. Two of the fingers on my left hand had been broken and were badly deformed, so I knew I couldn’t make my living out of being a
guitarra
any more. I didn’t really know what to do with myself.’
Miguel paused for a moment.
‘Quite simply, I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Concha made me welcome and invited me to make my home with her. She treated me like her son.’
‘But Concha died not long after you came back,’ commented Sonia.
‘Yes, she did. She became sick quite quickly, but I nursed her as well as I could.’
‘Did she ever write to Mercedes to tell her that you were here?’
‘No,’ Miguel answered bluntly.
‘I suppose it would have come out that she had known for years that you might still be alive . . .’
‘. . . but she had told me that Mercedes was living in England and that she was settled.’
‘But she loved you so much.’ Sonia choked as she spoke. ‘And you loved her?’