Authors: Dave Boling
If the man wished to engage in conversation, she had several effective means of causing talk to abruptly cease.
With great ceremony, Justo Ansotegui uncorked the wine and poured small amounts for his wife, daughter, and son-in-law. As
the wine burbled through the opening, Justo echoed its sound: “Glug, glug, glug.” New glass. “Glug, glug, glug.”
“This,” Justo announced as he wet a glass for himself, “may be the last bottle of
txakoli
we see for some time. With the next bottle, we may celebrate the glorious defeat of the Falange pigs.”
“Don’t call them pigs, Papa, that makes me think of food,” Miren said, drawing out “food” as if she could savor the taste
of the syllable. It had been months since a pig had been slaughtered in the neighborhood, and Miren’s cows had been sacrificed,
one by one, over the previous years. This diet of limited protein created gaunt faces and stooped shoulders among even the
town’s most robust citizens.
They took tender sips of the clear, fruity wine to make it last.
Usually at this time, when the first flush of wine had moistened his throat, Justo began telling stories. But Miren did not
give her father the chance to start a tale that might take an hour to finish before he finally linked it to an example of
his own strength or mystical powers.
“Papa, Miguel is talking about joining the army and I want you to force him to give up the idea,” Miren said.
“He’s a man and I would say you hold more sway over him than I do,” Justo said. “And as for physical force,
kuttuna
, what good would it be if I returned to you a broken husband?”
“No, I don’t
want
to join the army,” Miguel stressed, putting down his glass with unexpected force. “I don’t want to fight anybody. I want to
be left alone, but I don’t think they’re going to let us.”
“Good man,” Justo said. “I will not let that happen, either.”
“Don’t start that, Papa, he’s a father now,” Miren said, gesturing to Catalina, who was asleep in her carriage. “They’re looking
for unmarried men to fight now.”
“Don’t kid yourself, they’ll take whoever they can get,” Mariangeles said. “I want both of you to promise not to do anything
stupid.”
“Have we ever done anything stupid?” Justo objected.
“You are men,” Mariangeles said.
All four nodded.
“Papa, Miguel is thinking about trading some work for a rifle; I told him it will only get him in trouble,” Miren said.
Justo agreed with that point. “I had a bad experience with a rifle one time.”
“That’s the same thing Miguel says about berets,” Miren said.
“No, son, you don’t need a rifle, and I don’t need a rifle,” Justo said, clenching his hands as if strangling a thin-necked
Fascist. “If anyone sets foot on Errotabarri I won’t need a weapon.”
“That’s probably what Roberto Mezo believed, too,” Mariangeles said.
Miren had heard the reports of atrocities and that there were dangers and threats, but she was helpless to comprehend them.
These things happened, but not to her, not here. She was too embarrassed to say this, but she felt that if she could just
talk to Franco, sit down with him, she could straighten this all out. She could make him see the importance of stopping the
war, especially the fighting against the Basques. She could convince him. He would see her as a human being who deserved to
be left unharmed. She could teach him a
jota
.
“We’ve never invaded anyone else’s territory,” Miren said with an expectation of fairness.
“Xabier has studied these things and told me that when the Romans came, we tolerated them because they built bridges,” Justo
said. “We let them stay for a while, build some roads, and then watched them leave when they lost interest.”
“Could the same thing happen with Franco?” Miren asked. “Could he just come in without fighting and nothing would change?”
All knew that was not the approach the rebels had taken elsewhere.
Mariangeles saw a clearer reality: “These aren’t Romans, these are Spaniards, and like it or not, we are in Spain, at least
as they see it. Franco’s made it clear he wants to be rid of the Basques.”
Justo grew defensive. “We’ve always fought in the woods and the mountains and outsmarted everyone who invaded until what ever
it was they wanted from us was not nearly worth the inconvenience of being stabbed in their sleep or being shoved off a mountain
trail.”
“Franco is the devil,” Mariangeles continued. “I heard at the market that he had his own cousin executed on the first day
of the revolt. And most of the Guardias have fallen in with the rebels now, too. Stopping the Fascists in Spain is something
that we might manage. But with the Germans and Italians joining them, and nobody acting very interested in helping us, it’s
different; you can’t stab an airplane in its sleep.”
Miguel felt a surge of anger mixed with stubbornness. He began to understand what Dodo had tried to tell him years before,
that there would come a time to fight. “Are we supposed to just let them walk in and take over?”
“Some people around here won’t merely stand for it, they’ll welcome it,” Mariangeles reminded him. “There’s Falange in town,
you know it. They think if they support Franco it’s the best way to protect themselves. Who do you think turned in Mezo? Most
of the priests in Spain are behind Franco. He has the support of the Vatican in Rome.”
Miren was stunned. “The church wants Franco to win?”
“Xabier said that’s true; it’s coming all the way from Rome,” Justo said. “But many of the Basque priests are ignoring the
Vatican and supporting the Republican army.”
The four turned their attention to their glasses as Justo poured the last of the wine equally.
Justo raised his glass in a toast to signal the end of the discussion.
“Let us recall one of my favorite sayings,” Justo said. “Neither a tyrant nor a slave . . . a free man I was born, a free
man I will die.”
They touched the rims of their wineglasses, which rang delicately inside Errotabarri.
Miguel objected to the tradition because it felt like an act of desecration. But Justo insisted, with Mariangeles and Miren
acting as willing conspirators. Catalina was to have her ears pierced, just as Miren had at her age.
Among the many gene tic advantages of being Basque, Justo reminded them, was the presence of gloriously pendant earlobes.
The ancients would pierce the tiny lobes of baby girls and adorn them with ornamentation as a declaration of their Basque
purity. Never bashful about trumpeting a perceived superiority, they developed a dismissive label for outsiders: “the Stumpy-Ears.”
So Mariangeles and her sisters had their ears pierced when they still were in the cradle, and so did Miren. As much as Miren
wanted to abide by the custom, she knew she could not perform the operation, leaving the task to Amuma Mariangeles, an experienced
hand in the matter.
They gathered at Errotabarri for the ceremony, and Miren laid Catalina on the table, where she wiggled and babbled and stretched
her arms up, clenching and reclenching her tiny fingers, trying to instruct these large oblivious beings that she’d rather
be held.
The process was as traditional as the deed. A small sewing needle, eye looped with a fine silk thread, was seared by fire.
A wedge of raw potato was cut so that it would fit behind the baby’s earlobe to provide resistance. The baby was held by her
arms and head to keep her steady; the lobe was penetrated and the thread of silk was left to prevent the hole from healing
over. Every day, a drop or two of olive oil was dribbled onto the thread as lubricant, and the thread was pulled back and
forth to keep the passage open until it was healed enough that tiny hoops or posts could be inserted.
“Miguel, these are the baby earrings that both Miren and I wore,” Mariangeles said, pulling from a box the tiny silver
lauburuak
that were affixed to thread-thin studs.
Although outnumbered four to one, the writhing Catalina was easily their equal. Justo held her head but was more concerned
with petting her fine dark hair; Miguel held her arms but was afraid of bruising her if he asserted his strength; Miren held
her legs, but whenever Catalina thrust them, Miren’s re sistance only provided leverage for her to scoot toward Justo at the
head of the table.
“Goodness, you’d think we were butchering a ram; this is a little baby,” Mariangeles chided.
They continued their passive restraint but affected greater stridence by assuming stern expressions. Mariangeles pressed on
anyway. When the hot needle penetrated Catalina’s left ear she squealed but did not wrestle too fiercely, and the thread hung
in place as drops of blood were dabbed away by Mariangeles. Catalina’s subdued sobbing lulled them into false confidence,
and Justo, Miguel, and Miren were unprepared for Catalina’s adrenalized struggle when the needle began its second penetration.
She wrestled her head inside Justo’s tender grasp and blood flew.
“Damn it!” It was the first curse anyone had heard from Mari-angeles.
Mariangeles attempted to stanch the blood with her skirt as Catalina’s howls mortified her parents. When Catalina calmed enough
to allow examination, it was clear that her jerking away had caused the needle to rip a notch in her earlobe.
“Will that heal? Will she be all right?” Miren asked frantically.
“She’ll be fine; it will heal up, I think,” Mariangeles answered. “We can try again a little higher up in a few months.”
Exhausted, Catalina whimpered and sobbed on the table and outstretched her arms in the direction of Miren. Mariangeles, feeling
deep guilt and the fear that her granddaughter might forever hold her responsible, handed the baby to Miren.
The silent discomfiture in the room was broken only by the sounds of the sniffling Catalina until Miguel began laughing, slowly
at first, and then more loudly. The others stared him down.
“Miguel,” Miren said sharply.
“My God,” Miguel said. “Look at her, our perfect little baby girl is going to go through life looking just like her
aitxitxia
Justo!”
Justo fingered the frayed edges of his right ear and had no hope of containing the smile that bunched up his cheeks so hard
that his eyes squinted.
Jean-Claude Artola told Dodo that the associate he needed to meet would be at a place on Rue de la République, the Pub du
Corsaire (Bar of the Privateers). He knew that Saint-Jean-de-Luz was famed not only as a port for the storied Basque whalers
but as the den of some of the greediest cutthroat pirates and privateers to sail since the seventeenth century. He entered
the door and found himself in the dark-oak belly of a corsair ship. Golden lantern light puddled amid the shadows. Oak decking
and stout knees attached the false futtocks to the upper deck. In the middle, the mainmast extended down to the keel. The
bar ran perpendicular to the beam, up the port side to the middle of the ship. He could almost feel the swell of the seas.
“I’m home,” he announced to no one.
A few tables and booths were clustered near the “bow,” and Dodo sat at the fore end of the bar. A woman sitting with friends
soon rose to leave; her dog had been sleeping at her feet.
“
Allez, Déjeuner
,” she said to the small bristle-furred dog as she neared Dodo.
Déjeuner?
Lunch. He grasped the amusing implication.
“You must have been eating in Spain recently,” Dodo said to her. With a broad belt cinching her skirt waist below a loose
shirt, the woman seemed to match the decor. She could have trodden the foredeck with the corsairs, Dodo thought. She flashed
across his mind in images of impish larceny and feminine roguishness. This was a woman, he was certain, with whom a man could
raise infinite amounts of hell.
Within a minute, he discovered that she was Renée Labourd, the woman he had been told to contact. Within weeks, they were
companions, attracted mostly by their own qualities in each other. To Dodo, Renée carried a hint of the wild. To Renée, Dodo
displayed, in the most interesting ways, the spirit of her father.
Sensing his potential, Renée began schooling Dodo in the crepuscular arts, the “
travail de la nuit
” that had served as her family’s business for generations. Her father and mother operated a small auberge on the road outside
Sare. The town, just southeast of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, was situated near so many mountain passes along the Spanish border that
it was considered the capital of the
contrebandiers
who exploited a thriving unsanctioned import/export trade. For several generations, the Labourd family had rented rooms, with
mountain views out each shuttered and flower-boxed window, and served exquisite French-Basque cuisine to locals and guests.
But their real job always had been ferrying goods across the border.
After hearing from Dodo the accounts of his first few disastrous nights in the mountains, Renée instructed Dodo in both the
practice and philosophy of the business. The creative avoidance of unlawful taxes, unfair tariffs, and absurd embargoes carried
no negative connotations among those who lived there, she stressed. The border didn’t belong there; it was not recognized
by those in residence on either side because their families predated its random scribble across the maps.
Renée’s parents had used her as a decoy or an appealing little diversion since childhood, letting her charm the Guardias or
gendarmes with a dance or a song or a story as Mère and Père slipped past them with anything smaller than an elephant carrying
a piano. Some nights it was as simple as toting packs of French wine and cheese, other times as tricky as herding a string
of horses up the steep passes.
After having dropped their delivery one night, Dodo and Renée strolled hand in hand through the French checkpoint like lovers
enjoying the moonlight. As they were cleared to pass, the border guards were roused to investigate suspicious activity up
a nearby draw. Dodo and Renée stood and watched as the two guards gathered their weapons and headed off into the darkness.
Slipping into the unattended guard shack, they pocketed whatever blank paperwork they could find for future use, collected
the small cache of spare ammunition, and made love on the captain’s desk.
Miguel stepped lightly, heel to toe, and crouched in the cover of weeds when he neared the stream. There were fish to be had,
but it was no longer a matter of recreation. Now it was about fending off hunger. So, like nearly everything else in their
lives, it was more serious and harder work. But on this day, he pulled six trout from a stream he hadn’t fished in some time.
Two would serve as dinner, two would be a nice gift to Mendiola to supplement his family’s meal, and one would brighten the
evening of the widow Uberaga next door, leaving one to spare.
“Miren, you should take a fish to Alaia’s,” he suggested. “I don’t know how much help she’s getting from Zubiri these days.
It might be a nice surprise.”
Miren appreciated her husband’s thoughtfulness, and as soon as they finished eating she walked to Alaia’s cottage, hoping
to get the trout to her before she prepared her evening meal. Miren had never heard Alaia complain, but the scarcity of food
had to affect her at least as much as anybody in town. Selling bars of soap inexpensively at the market could not provide
much for Alaia to live on.
As Miren slipped through the door, she called out, “Alaia, look what Miguel brought home for—”
She could not actually see Alaia as she entered, only a pale, furrowed rump cresting and plunging.
“Uuugggg.” It was old man Zubiri, whom she did not recognize until her shout caused him to dismount in a panic and snatch
up the overalls that were gathered at his ankles. Having not bothered to remove his boots for the experience, all Zubiri had
to do was regain his feet, pull up his overalls, and fly past Miren through the door she had left open. His beret had been
firmly in place the entire time.
Miren said nothing. She stood frozen, holding a fish.
Alaia sat up on the bed, inhaled deeply, and readied for Miren’s inevitable inquest. But her friend was stunned mute.
“Miren?”
Miren was paralyzed by two revelations: Someone as old as Zu-biri still had sex, and her friend, now standing nude by her
bed, was so beautiful that it caused her to stare. Her figure was lush, so pleasingly arched and dimensional, and her nipples
were as round and deeply brown as chestnuts.
“Miren . . . oh.” Alaia sensed her embarrassment and retrieved her gray cotton dress, calmly felt the collar edge for the
opening that would identify which was the front, and then slipped it over her head.
“Miren?” she said, straightening the dress.
Miren recaptured enough composure to place the fish on the table.
“Here is a fish I brought,” she said. “I can help you fry it up if you’re hungry.”
“Say it, Miren.”
“Alaia, how could you be in love with old man Zubiri?”
Alaia’s outburst of laughter shocked Miren again.
“I’m not in love with Zubiri,” she said. “We’re more like business partners.”
“Then why were . . . and . . . that didn’t look like business.”
“He helps out with food; he brings me the things I need for soaps, and milk, and cordwood for the stove,” Alaia said.
“And you?”
“I help him with things he’s needed for a long time.”
Miren wondered how she could trade herself for things that Miren would have gladly supplied. If she needed help or food, all
she had to do was ask. Miguel would cut and stack firewood for her. Her father and mother would help. Alaia didn’t have to
resort to this.
“Miren, it’s not just Zubiri. There are a few others, too, and I’m not going to tell you who they are, because they expect
me to keep this private. Some of them, in fact, don’t want to believe that I know who they are.”
“You have
many
business partners?”
“Miren, I know what I’m doing. I don’t have to make excuses, but I will remind you that I was in that convent for eighteen
years. I grew up with dozens of nuns.”
Miren mumbled something beneath her breath that Alaia could not hear.
“Miren . . . I’m a big girl. I do it because I want to. If you have worries about me, thank you, but save them.”
Miren was new to intimacy herself and was certain that she was more naïve than prudish. Yes, if Alaia cared to know, she enjoyed
the contact, too, so much so that she thought about it much of the day when Miguel worked. But that was different.
“Even with an old man?” Miren asked. “Do you enjoy that?”
“It’s still closeness,” Alaia explained. “It meets a need for him, and I can promise you, as much as you might not believe
it, considering the love you have with Miguel, it helps me, too.”
“Do you do this with anybody?”
“I don’t ask questions because I don’t want them asking questions of me either,” Alaia said. “I know who they are. I hear
them in the market; I can recognize most of them, although they like to think that I can’t. If I know it’s a married man who
shows up at the door, I act as if he is here to buy soap and tell him that I only sell it at the market on Mondays. But I
don’t sit here judging them, either. I don’t have room for that.”
Miren was flushed; the smells, the stream muttering, the unsettling realization that her best friend was . . . what? What
do you even call it?
“I hope I didn’t scare him off for good,” Miren said. “I’d hate to be responsible for the failing of your business. You might
have to work to get more good customers.”
“I think he’ll come back,” Alaia speculated. “I just have to start remembering to bolt the door when I have a guest. I think
that will provide enough security for him. I would ask that when you see Mr. Zubiri in town you’d try not to point at him.
I don’t want any hints of anything to get back over those convent walls.”
Miren remembered Alaia’s inability to have children, which sated some of the practical elements of her curiosity. How does
word of mouth spread if she’s scrupulously confidential? How does she avoid more than one arriving at a time? Does she have
a schedule? Does she sell them soap afterward? She struggled to shunt her curiosity, and she remembered her uncle Xabier’s
words once when she asked him to explain the shaky character of someone in town.