MY PAPA, DON Vicente Alonso Carbazón, was known in our town of Las Conchas for his strictness in dealing with criminals, but I had never seen cold hatred on his face until that dreadful summer’s day.
Alerted by the commotion, he came to the door of our house. Upon hearing Ramón’s garbled version of events, he hit the beggar so hard on his mouth that the man’s face burst open like a pomegranate. The sight of the poor man grovelling at his feet seemed to inflame rather than appease Papa. I didn’t know that he was maddened by grief and had lost control of his emotions.
‘Papa.’ I laid my hand on his arm, but he shook it off and dismissed me. And then: horror! They sent for a rope.
I looked to Ramón to stop this, but he was still furious at being humiliated in the church and having to call on the soldiers for help to capture an emaciated peasant. The grim satisfaction in his manner told me that there was no use in appealing to him to stay Papa’s hand.
I staggered back into the doorway of the house as the soldiers did their grisly business. Then a young lad leaped down from the wall of our compound and ran towards us, sobbing and crying for his father.
One of the soldiers grabbed him by the waistband of his breeches and swung him up into the air. ‘Another one for the crows to pick the eyes from!’ he laughed.
And I heard vile words spew from my papa’s mouth, and he gave an order for the lieutenant to hang the boy alongside his father.
‘Papa!’ This time my screech got Papa’s attention. ‘The boy wasn’t there in the church. He has nothing to do with this.’
‘These thieves and brigands work in gangs,’ Papa told me. He tried to usher me into the house. ‘You are too young and innocent, my daughter, to know such things.’
‘He is only a child.’ I pulled on my papa’s shirt sleeve. ‘Look at him. Think of your own newborn son.’
‘I have no son.’
I stared at Papa. And then I saw what I hadn’t noticed before. He was not properly dressed and the hair of his head and beard was unkempt.
‘Your baby brother died half an hour ago,’ he explained.
‘Oh, no!’ Hot tears flooded my eyes. Nine pregnancies my mother had endured since my own birth, with all but this one ending in miscarriage. And now the boy child was dead. No wonder Papa was beyond reasonable thought.
‘Father! Father!’ Outside, the boy was still fighting and reaching out to touch the dead body of his father swinging from the tree. But the noose of a second rope went around his neck and the lieutenant slung the long end over the same branch.
‘You’ll be with your father soon enough,’ one of the soldiers mocked the boy. He began to pull on the end of the rope and the boy rose into the air, his legs kicking as his father’s had done not five minutes since.
I went down on my knees before my papa. ‘Think of Mama,’ I pleaded. ‘She is a kind and gentle mother to me. She wouldn’t want this boy to die as well as her own son.’
My father’s face crumpled and he placed both his hands over his face. ‘Your mama—’ he began, but he could not continue. Sobs racked his body.
‘Mama?’ My breath froze in my lungs. ‘Mama! Tell me that nothing has happened to her. Please, Papa. Tell me that she lives.’
‘She lives,’ he said, ‘but it will not be for long.’ He hesitated, and then he motioned to the lieutenant. ‘There has been enough death in this house for one day. I will spare the boy’s life, but see to it that he is sent away where I will never see him again.’
In some disappointment the soldiers let go of the rope and the boy crashed to the ground, where he lay twitching, stunned but alive.
‘We are on our way by ship to join the armies of Queen Isabella of Castile and King Ferdinand of Aragon in siege against Granada,’ the lieutenant told my papa. ‘I’ll give this beggar rat to the first galley boat we meet at sea. He can be their slave until the end of his days.’
Papa nodded, but I barely heard this exchange. I pushed past him and ran upstairs to my mother’s bedroom. My aunt Beatriz knelt beside the bed holding my mother’s hand. And I knew then that my mother must be dying, for my aunt was an enclosed nun who did not leave the cloister except in extreme circumstances. She had set her nun’s veil aside and I could see how her features resembled my mother’s, except that she was much younger. She was talking to her sister in a soothing voice, telling her how her trials of this life would soon be over and she would find her rest and reward in Heaven.
‘No!’ I said in a loud voice. ‘Don’t say that! Mama cannot die.’ But I could see that my mother’s cheeks and eye-sockets had sunken in, and that every breath was a struggle for her.
The local priest, Father Andrés, who stood at the end of the bed, tried to offer words of solace, but I was not to be placated. I shouted at him, ‘I went to the shrine of Our Lady of Sorrows to pray and make an offering so that everything would be well. I lit a candle and asked that Mama recover after the birth. But there was no one in Heaven listening to me.’ I was angry with his God who could ignore my pleas for mercy. ‘What use was there in my doing that?’ I berated the priest. ‘It was all for nothing. Nothing!’
Father Andrés’ face registered shock at my words but he spoke to me kindly. ‘You mustn’t say things like that, Zarita. It’s wrong to question the Will of God.’
My aunt Beatriz said, ‘Zarita, child, compose yourself. Your mother is slipping away. Let her do so in peace with quiet words of love from you.’
But I could only think of my own need, my own sorrow. I cast myself across Mama’s body where she lay on the bed and wept tears and cried, ‘Do not leave me, Mama! Mama! Mama! Do not leave me!’