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She was giggling uncontrollably and couldn’t stop.
‘I’m … I’m imagining your mother’s face when she finds out she has to take everything back.’
2 (#u68b5cde6-8bc1-5c6c-b39f-c381c5222a9f)
Three months later
Amaia thought she recognised the song that reached her, scarcely a whisper, from the living room. She had just finished clearing away the lunch things, and, drying her hands on a kitchen towel, she walked over to the door, the better to hear the lullaby her aunt was singing to Ibai in a soft, soothing voice. Yes, it was the same one. Although she hadn’t heard it for years, she recognised the song her Amatxi Juanita used to sing to her when she was little. The memory brought back her adored and much-lamented Juanita, wrapped in her widow’s weeds, hair swept up in a bun, fastened with silver combs that could barely contain her unruly white curls; her grandmother, the only woman who had cradled her as an infant:
Txitxo politori
zu nere laztana,
katiatu ninduzun,
libria nintzana.
Libriak libre dira,
zu ta ni katig,
librerik oba dana,
biok dakigu.
Sitting in the armchair near the blazing fire, Engrasi held the tiny Ibai in her arms, eyes fixed on his little face as she recited the old verses of that mournful lullaby. She was smiling, although Amaia distinctly remembered her grandmother weeping as she sang it to her. She wondered why, reflecting that perhaps Juanita already understood the suffering in her granddaughter’s soul, and shared her fears.
Nire laztana laztango
Kalian negarrez dago,
Aren negarra gozoago da
Askoren barrea baiño.
When the song finished, Juanita would dry her tears with the spotless handkerchief embroidered with her initials and those of her husband, the grandfather Amaia had never known, gazing down at her from the faded portrait that presided over the dining room.
‘Why are you crying, Amatxi? Does the song make you sad?’
‘Take no notice, my love, your amatxi is a silly old woman.’
And yet she sighed, clasping the girl still more tightly in her arms, holding her a little longer, although Amaia was happy to stay.
She stood listening to the end of the lullaby, relishing the pleasure of recalling the words just before her aunt sang them. In the air lingered an aroma of stew, burning logs and the wax on Engrasi’s furniture. James had fallen asleep on the sofa, and although the room wasn’t cold, Amaia went over, covering him as best she could with a small, red rug. He opened his eyes for an instant, blew her a kiss and carried on dozing. Amaia pulled up a chair next to her aunt and sat contemplating her: the old lady had stopped singing, yet she continued to gaze in awe at the face of the sleeping child. Engrasi looked at her niece, smiling as she held the child out for her to take. Amaia kissed him gently on the head before putting him in his cot.
‘Is James asleep?’ Engrasi asked.
‘Yes, we hardly slept a wink. Ibai sometimes has cholic after a feed, especially at night, so James was up in the small hours, pacing round the house with him.’
Engrasi turned to look at James. ‘He’s a good father,’ she said.
‘The best.’
‘What about you, aren’t you tired?’
‘No, you know me. I’m fine with a few hours’ sleep.’
Engrasi seemed to reflect, her face clouding for an instant, but then she smiled once more and gestured towards the cot.
‘He’s beautiful, Amaia, the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen, and I’m not just saying that because he’s ours; there’s something special about Ibai.’
‘You can say that again!’ declared Amaia. ‘The baby boy who was supposed to be a girl but changed his mind at the last minute.’
Engrasi pulled a serious face. ‘That’s exactly what I think happened.’
Amaia looked puzzled.
‘I did a reading when you first became pregnant – just to make sure everything was all right – and it was obvious then that the baby was a girl. Over the following months, I consulted the cards several times, but never looked into the question of the baby’s sex again because it was something I already knew. Towards the end, when you were acting strangely, saying you felt unable to choose a name for the baby or to buy her clothes, I came up with a plausible psychological explanation,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I also consulted the cards. I must confess that, for a while, I feared the worst; that this uncertainty you felt, this paralysis, was a sign that your child would never be born. Mothers sometimes have premonitions like that, and they always reflect something real. But on that occasion, no matter how many times I consulted the cards about the baby’s sex, they wouldn’t tell me – and you know what I always say about the things the cards won’t tell us: if the cards won’t tell, then we’re not meant to know. Some things will never be revealed to us, because their nature is to remain mysterious; other things will be revealed when the time is right. When James called me early that morning, the cards couldn’t have been clearer. A boy.’
‘Are you saying you think I was going to have a girl but in the last month she turned into a boy? That’s physically impossible.’
‘Yes, I think you were going to have a daughter, I think you probably will have her one day, but I also believe this wasn’t the right time for her, that someone left the decision until the last moment and then decided you’d have Ibai.’
‘And who do you think took that decision?’
‘Perhaps the same one who gave him to you.’
Amaia stood up, exasperated.
‘I’m going to make some coffee. Do you want a cup?’
Aunt Engrasi ignored the question. ‘You’re wrong to deny it was a miracle.’
‘I’m not denying it, Auntie,’ she protested, ‘it’s just that …’
‘Don’t believe in them, don’t deny their existence,’ said Engrasi, invoking the old incantation against witches that had been popular as recently as a century earlier.
‘Least of all me,’ whispered Amaia, recalling those amber eyes, the fleeting, high-pitched whistle that had guided her through the forest in the middle of the night as she struggled with the feeling of being in a dream while at the same time experiencing something real.
She remained silent until her aunt spoke again.
‘When are you going back to work?’
‘Next Monday.’
‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Well, Auntie, you know I like my job, but I have to admit that going back has never felt this hard, not after the holidays, or after our honeymoon. Everything’s different now, now there’s Ibai,’ she said, glancing at his cot. ‘It feels too soon to be leaving him.’
Engrasi nodded, smiling.
‘Did you know that in the past in Baztán women had to stay at home for a month after they gave birth? That was the period the Church deemed sufficient to ensure the baby’s health and survival. Only then was the mother allowed out to take the baby to the church to be baptised. But every law has its loophole. The women of Baztán were known for getting things done. A month was a long time, considering most of them were obliged to work, they had other children, livestock and crops to tend, cows to milk. So whenever they had to leave the house, they would send their husbands up to the roof to fetch a tile. Then they tied it tightly on their head with a scarf. That way the women were able to carry out their chores, while continuing to observe the custom, because as you know, in Baztán your roof is your home.’
Amaia grinned. ‘I can’t quite see myself with a tile on my head, but I’d happily wear one if that meant I could take my house with me.’
‘How did your mother-in-law react when you told her about Ibai?’
‘Much as you’d imagine: she began by railing against the doctors and their prenatal screening methods, insisting such things never happen in the States. She was fine with the baby, although clearly a little disappointed, probably because she wasn’t able to smother him in ribbons and lace. Overnight she lost all desire to go shopping, changed the nursery from pink to white, and swapped the baby outfits for vouchers, which will enable me to clothe Ibai until he’s four.’
‘What a woman!’ chuckled Engrasi.
‘Thomas, on the other hand, was thrilled with Ibai. He cradled him in his arms all day, covered him in kisses and took countless photos of him. He’s even opened a college trust fund for him! Clarice grew bored once she stopped shopping. She began to talk about going home, about her many commitments there – she’s president of a couple of clubs for society ladies, how she missed playing golf, and she started to pester us about getting Ibai baptised. James stood up to her, because he always wanted our baby to be baptised at the San Fermín Chapel, but you know how long the waiting list is – a year, at least. So, Clarice showed up at the chapel, spoke to the chaplain, made a generous donation, and managed to get a date next week,’ Amaia said, laughing.
‘Money talks,’ said Engrasi.
‘It’s a shame you won’t be coming, Auntie.’
Engrasi clicked her tongue. ‘You know, Amaia …’
‘I know, you never leave the valley.’
‘I’m happy here,’ said Engrasi, her words embracing a whole philosophy of life.
‘We’re all happy here,’ said Amaia, dreamily. ‘When I was small, I only ever felt relaxed in this house,’ she added all of a sudden. Amaia was gazing into the fire, mesmerised, her voice, at once soft and shrill, was that of a little girl.
‘I scarcely slept at home – because I had to keep watch, and when I could no longer stay awake, when sleep came, it was never deep or restful, it was the sleep of those condemned to death, waiting for their executioner’s face to loom over them because their time has come.’
‘Amaia …’ Engrasi said softly.
‘If you stay awake she won’t get you, you can cry out, wake the others and she won’t be able to—’
‘Amaia …’
She turned away from the fire, looked at her aunt and smiled.
‘This house has always been a refuge for everyone, hasn’t it? Including Ros. She hasn’t been back to her own place since what happened to Freddy.’
‘No, she goes round there regularly, but sleeps here.’
They heard a soft knock at the door. Ros appeared in the entrance, pulling off her colourful woollen hat.
‘Kaixo,’ she said. ‘It’s freezing outside! How cosy you are in here,’ she added, peeling off several layers of clothing.
Amaia studied her sister; she knew her well enough to notice how thin she was, that despite her luminous smile her face had lost its glow. Poor Ros, her anxieties and the sadness she carried around inside had become such a constant part of her life that Amaia could scarcely recall the last time she saw her sister truly happy, despite the success she had made of managing the bakery. Yes, there had been the problems of the past few months, her separation from Freddy, Víctor’s death … But more than anything, the sadness was part of her character. She was one of those people for whom life is more painful, who make you think they might take the easy way out if things get too difficult.
‘Sit here, I’m going to make coffee.’ Amaia rose to offer Ros her chair. As she clasped her sister’s hand, she saw that her nails were flecked with white. ‘Have you been painting?’
‘Just a few bits and bobs in the bakery.’
Amaia hugged Ros, feeling her thinness even more starkly.
‘Sit down by the fire, you’re freezing,’ she urged.
‘I will, but first I want to see the little prince.’
‘Don’t wake him up,’ whispered Amaia, coming over.
Ros gazed at Ibai, frowning.
‘I can’t believe it! Doesn’t this child do anything other than sleep? When is he going to wake up so that his auntie can give him a cuddle?’
‘Try coming to my place between eleven p.m. and five a.m. and you’ll see that, not only is he wide awake but nature has blessed him with a fine pair of lungs, and a cry that threatens to burst your eardrums. You’re welcome to come round and cuddle him anytime.’
‘I might take you up on that – or are you trying to scare me off?’
‘You’d last one night, then you’d hand him straight back to me.’
‘Woman of little faith,’ said Ros, pretending to take umbrage. ‘If you lived here, I’d show you.’
‘Right, go and buy some earplugs; you’re on duty tonight – we’re sleeping over.’
‘What a shame,’ said Ros, feigning disappointment. ‘It just so happens I have other plans.’
They all laughed.
3 (#u68b5cde6-8bc1-5c6c-b39f-c381c5222a9f)
Winter 1979
He reached out his hand, seeking his wife’s warm presence, but found only an empty space where the heat from her body had long since evaporated.
Alarmed, he sat up, slid his legs out of bed and listened intently for any tell-tale sounds that his wife was in the house.
Barefoot, he searched every room. He entered the bedroom where the two girls lay asleep in twin beds, the kitchen, the bathroom. He even checked the balcony to make sure she hadn’t collapsed after she got up, and was lying on the floor unable to cry for help. Part of him wished this were true, rather than knowing that she had waited until he was asleep to steal out of the house, to go … He had no idea where or with whom, only that she would return before dawn, that the cold which had seeped into her flesh would take a while to ease, lingering between them, an invisible, insurmountable barrier, as she fell into a deep sleep while he lay there motionless. He went back to the bedroom, stroked the soft pillowcase, instinctively leaning over to breathe in the scent of his wife’s hair. A guttural cry of despair rose from his throat as he struggled once more to understand what had happened to them. ‘Rosario,’ he whispered, ‘Rosario.’ His proud wife, the young woman from San Sebastián who had come to Elizondo on holiday, with whom he had fallen in love the moment he saw her, the woman who had given him two daughters, and was carrying a third in her belly, the woman who had worked alongside him every day, devoting herself to the bakery, who undoubtedly had a better head for commerce than he, who had helped him raise the business beyond his wildest dreams. The elegant woman who never left the house without looking immaculate; a wonderful wife and a loving mother towards Flora and Rosaura, so distinguished and sophisticated that other women looked like housemaids in comparison. Standoffish towards their neighbours, she oozed charm in the bakery, but avoided contact with other mothers. Apart from him, her only friend was Elena. And then a few months ago the two women had stopped speaking to each other. When he bumped into Elena in the street one day and asked her why, all she could say was: ‘Rosario is no longer my friend, I’ve lost her.’ This made all the more puzzling her nocturnal escapades, the long walks she insisted on taking alone, her absences at all hours of the day or night, her silences. Where did she go? At first when he had questioned her, her replies were evasive: ‘Out walking, thinking.’ Once, half in jest, he had said: ‘Can’t you think here with me, or at least let me go with you?’
She had shot him a strange, angry glance, then replied with alarming coldness:
‘That’s completely out of the question.’
Juan considered himself a simple man; he realised that he was lucky to be married to a woman like Rosario, that he knew little about the female psyche, and so, filled with misgivings and guilt for what he saw as an act of betrayal, he sought advice from their local doctor. After all, the doctor was the only other person in Elizondo who knew Rosario relatively well. He had looked after her during her two previous pregnancies and attended the births. That was all, though: Rosario was a strong woman who rarely complained.
‘She sneaks out at night, lies to you about going to the bakery, is uncommunicative and wants to be left alone. What you’re describing sounds to me like depression. Sadly, here in the valley, that kind of affliction is commonplace. Rosario is from the coast, from the seaside, where the light is different even when it rains. The greyness here eventually takes its toll, we’ve had a lot of rain this year, and the suicide rate has reached alarming levels. I suspect that Rosario is slightly depressed. The fact that she showed no symptoms during her previous pregnancies means nothing. Rosario is a very demanding woman, but she makes great demands on herself too; I’m sure she’s a wonderful wife and mother, she looks after both the house and the bakery, is always impeccably turned out, but this pregnancy is more difficult for her because she’s no longer young. Hardy women like her see motherhood as another chore, another self-imposed responsibility. So, although she wants this baby, it has created a conflict between her need to be perfect in everything she does, and her fear of falling short. If I’m not mistaken, this will only get worse after the birth. You must be patient with her, shower her with affection and try to ease her burden. Take the older girls off her hands, hire an extra hand at the bakery, or find a home help.’
Rosario refused even to discuss the matter.
‘That’s all I need, one of those village gossips snooping around my house so she can tell people what I have and don’t have. What’s this all about? Have I been neglecting the house or the girls? Have I stopped going to the bakery every morning?’
He had felt overwhelmed, scarcely able to reply.
