Every Sparrow's Fall, 3 of 3
GABBY
Gabriella often walked the country roads around her village in the early morning hours. She would sometimes carry a bucket to keep people from talking, but today she didn’t have one.
She sang to herself.
Anda Jaleo! Jaleo!
She had a very vivid imagination, and was prone to bouts of fantasy, and she was frequently unable to sleep. She found the daylight oppressive. In it, people were grating and harsh. She was always praying for rainstorms. Even if the crops failed. She didn’t care.
She was a tall girl and she had a slight bounce in her walk. She had black hair that hung to her shoulders, bright, pensive eyes and prominent features owing partly to genetics and partly to hunger. She had one hand in her pocket, and the other swung at her side. Her fingers twitched at an imaginary pistol, which she kept pretending to draw.
Anda Jaleo!
It was just past 4 in the morning when she arrived at the little white farmhouse on the edge of the village of La Placita. She went quietly to the back of the house. She reached in an open window and tapped Sophia on the foot.
Sophia was dreaming. A massive flock of sheep were being brought in from the fields, there were men shouting and shooting guns into the air. The sheep looked like a swarm of bees from where she sat on the hilltop. It was early in the evening and the hills were glowing red, and the sheep were crying out loudly as they pushed in through the narrow gate.
Gabby pulled at Sophia’s foot and Sophia woke with suprise.
“What time is it?”
“Almost light,” Gabby answered. “Let’s go.”
Sophie got up and dressed quietly in the dark while Gabby smoked by the window. Sophie came out a few moments later. Sophia was shorter than her friend, with softer features. This bothered her for reasons she didn’t understand, she was sometimes too aware of it, and she would act strangely. Gabby thought she was beautiful. Gabby did not guard this secret as well as she thought.
Sophia smiled.
“How is she?”
Gabby wasn’t worried about the goat.
“She’s fine. It’s coming. Let’s get the water and then you can come and see her.”
They each grabbed a bucket and walked together further along the little country road. They passed the cemetery and the church, and made their way slowly down toward the well.
Sophie asked about the goat again and Gabby talked about it in enough detail to satisfy her friend, though Gabby was bored with goats and with farm work in general. She didn’t want to talk about it. She was excited for the tobacco harvest.
She was about to change the subject, when she saw an old man sitting on the low stone wall. He was dressed well, but he looked as though someone had put him in someone else’s clothes. Perhaps he was just drunk. But he looked very worn down and beaten. She thought, perhaps he is not even an old man. Just old before his time. She was disciplined in her expression. She did not want the man to feel that she pitied him, though she did. The girls both nodded at the man as they passed, and he nodded back but said nothing. He looked ahead with the same sad, bloodshot eyes.
They continued on into the little town to the well.
“The tobacco harvest will be fun. My cousins are coming, and bringing some other boys from Seville. We will ride out with them in the truck tomorrow.”
She was referring to Esteban and Francisco, who were both tall skinny boys, good looking and very well read. Esteban was a socialist and Francisco was an anarchist and they both went on and on. They could argue for hours over the finer points of historical materialism, nature of the proletariat, and many other such things. The anarchists especially had been preaching in the tobacco farms of Andalusia for years by now. There were thousands such political misfits among the Andalusian farmers, especially among the day laborers and itinerant workers, and the tobacco harvest was sure to be something of a spectacle.
The men would argue endlessly. They talked all through the day and into the night and a great festive atmosphere grew up around the men arguing. There would be guitars and dancing, and meat roasting on the fire.
For Gabby it was comfortable, like a storm, the people were different by the light of the fire. The songs and the laughter softened them, even as the young men argued themselves into a frenzy. They would fall together hugging by the end of the night.
The freedom to say such things seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if someone found suddenly they could fly. The mere exercise of such a freedom was intoxicating to her, and it led Gabby to wonder what other new ways there might be of seeing the world, and what other great injustices might be overturned, by small turns of the mind and imperceptible actions of the soul.
When they got to the well the plaza was empty. Gabby could smell flowers from somewhere and the smell of a cigar. Then a cool wind blew down from the north and the air seemed suddenly clean. She thought it might rain. She thought about going somewhere where it would rain. People said it rained in England. They got their water and walked back up the hill past the little white house and up to Gabby’s barn where the goat was about to give birth. The goat was happy to see them and she made a pained greeting and lovingly rested her head on Gabby’s lap as the girls sat down beside her. She gave birth without difficulty and seemed pleased with her son. The girls witnessed the scene with tenderness. After a while they crept out of the barn and the sun was climbing in the sky. Sophia walked back down the hill and Gabby watched her go.
Late that night the boys arrived and they all slept on the floor. They were all up at dawn and they piled into the truck. Sophia was waiting for them when they arrived. Gabby waved at her and she jumped into the back: They started down the road to the tobacco farm, kicking up dust in the road behind them.
The group arrived just before dawn. They watched as workers poured in by the dozens. Whole families came up the hill on foot, and a few men rode old, worn out horses. When about 100 people had gathered in the field the bosses came out, led by an old man in wide hat. The people became quiet. It was first light.
A few of the men from among the workers, including Esteban and Francisco, approached the old man and spoke with him. Both groups of men took on an air of extreme seriousness. The old man spoke with urgency. His name was Juan Carlos Garcia. He began to walk and point and bark. The men all walked alongside him. They spoke in softer tones.
The little temporary villiage whirled to life. The men began calling out for people in the crowd and people began to move about with purpose, carrying things to and fro, setting up for the day. And before ten minutes were passed the girls were working along in rows picking the lowest, heaviest leaves off the plant. The leaves were sticky with resin and soon the girls were too. And the young men were pushing wheelbarrows, and the old women were threading the leaves onto long sticks, which were put into bundles. It was hard, intense work. And it would get hot soon. In the summer the wind blows up over the Sahara and North Africa into Andalusia, and the summer heat was deadly, at the limits of what a human being could withstand.
Esteban and Francisco and the other organizers said little the first day. They worked along with the others until they were sore, and aching, and tired.
That night in the little camp they spread out amongst the little groups of men and began planning for the morning.
The organizers could get you more money. If you had the courage to stop work and the food, however meager, to go without pay for a day or two, the organizers could get you a better deal.
The only potential problem was Juan Carlos Garcia, the old man who owned the farm. He was a hateful man. He had supported the Carlists in his youth. Had they known the depths of Garcia’s paranoid resentment, they would have organized elsewhere.
The next morning Francisco and Esteban went out to meet Juan Carlos Garcia and his men. They were big strong humorless men with nervous eyes.
Having established that it would take around ten days for the workers to complete the harvest, and that there was a fortune to be harvested, organizers wanted to renegotiate pay or work would stop.
The movement had begun to see some success, and all the people were hopeful that they could resume work on better terms. It had worked on other big farms. The organizers assured the people that little strikes were happening everywhere in Spain. The people nervously awaited the outcome of the meeting. You could see the old man shake his head. He shook his finger at the young men, but soon relented when he was convinced that the whole little villiage was willing to disperse without pay’. To old man could not replace the workers in time to save all his crops, so he had little choice but to meet the demands for increase in pay. He would have shot the two young organizers on the spot if not for the riot that would be sure to follow. Such affairs often ended badly for men like the old man in the wide hat, often with their farms burned to the ground. The old man spat on the ground as he walked away. The work went on and the people were paid well, and the young men from Seville were like heroes to all the people, and Gabby especially loved them for what they had done.
And she was happy and relieved when the work was done for the day and this night the men really would get to have their impassioned debates, and there would be dancing and laughter and the sweet smell of tobacco lingering in the air.
The harvest took only six more days. The success of the threatened strike was talked about in all the surrounding villages and was greeted with enthusiasm by some quarters in Seville, and grimly in others. And each night in the camp there was a sense of triumph and there were many sentimental toasts and speeches. Then on the seventh day the job was done and the little village disassembled and carried itself like a column of overburdened ants, down the hill. The old man with the broad hat came out on his high horse to watch them go and spit on the ground and cursed them from atop the hill. Some of his men were already in La Placita, asking questions and making dark plans.
Back in the village, the girls were happy to be home. They were washing clothes together by the river when they heard the shooting. Gabby climbed a tree to get a look, and she saw, after a few minutes, a car racing away from the town and trail of dust behind it. She climbed down from the tree and ran toward the little town. Sophie ran after her. Estaban had been shot and lay bleeding in front of Casa de Moreno. Francisco was screaming for help and Gabby ran as fast as she could but she could do nothing but hold her cousin as he lay dying. They carried Esteban to the doctor, who was not far, and they left a trail of his dark blood in the dust. The doctor saw right away it was hopeless. The priest was sent for, and he came just in time to perform the last rites and Esteban died. The girls held each other and as Francisco paced the room. He wept silently as he watched the little street, waiting for danger. The truck pulled up and the other boys were in it and they picked up everyone and went back to Gabby’s house where many people were already gathered. Gabby’s father showed the boys where the guns were buried. Under cover of night, Esteban’s friends, aching and hungry for revenge, dug up the guns.
They wanted to go right away to find Carlos Garcia. It was his men, some of the same men who had been with him on the tobacco farm, that had come looking for Francisco and Esteban. They had been in high spirits, sitting and drinking beer together and talking with the owner of the bar. The man who owned the bar liked the boys and they liked him and the day was cooler than usual. The windows were open and the bartender’s wife was cooking in the back, and the smell of eggs and coffee drifted through. Francisco finished his beer and stepped away to use the washroom. Esteban walked out front and lit a cigarette. He heard the car but he didn’t look in its direction. He was looking out toward to the old fort tower, which stood awkwardly by the well in the plaza. It was a small round stone tower. There were holes from which you could fire a rifle. Esteban wondered what forgotten conflict had caused the people to build it. He loved history and he dreamed of studying it at the university. But just as he was thinking of studying history, and admiring the tower, and enjoying his cigarette, shots rang out in the quiet little square and Esteban felt a series of thuds in his chest, looked down and saw the blood gushing out. He felt it pool hit in his lap as he sank down the wall. He saw the men’s faces who had shot him. They were disfigured with cruel smiles. He knew he was dying as the old bartender rushed out and shot an antique pistol which hit the door of the car sending it speeding away. As Francisco came running to his side, the car was just turning out of site. Esteban whispered, “Carlos Garcia”, and lost consciousness. Those would be his last words. Francisco screamed and a few moments later he saw Gabby running down the hill.
When Gabby heard the plan to go and find Garcia at his home, she instinctively understood what was at stake. She didn’t think it was a good plan. She convinced the young men after long pleading and many sincere tears to wait for their revenge. The outline of an alternative path was forming in her mind. So, the revenge was postponed and the next day was Esteban’s funeral. Many family and friends came from Seville and the surrounding villages outside La Placita del Rio Bonito came and mourned the young man, packing the little church there up the road. They buried him in the cemetery behind the church. As they walked back down the hill, Gabby, eyes full of tears, plucked a red flower from the roadside and put it behind her ear. The bartender distributed bottles of wine and the whole crowd got drunk as the sun went down on the lovely, sad occasion.
The day after the funeral the Guardia Civil showed up. When the bartender called them it was the following day and the man was already dead and soon to be buried. The officer on the phone said it wasn’t any hurry. He would send someone to take statements from the witnesses. When they spoke to the bartender, he told them truthfully that he was the only living witness to the shooting, and while he had not known the men he saw, everyone knew the boys had almost caused the work to stop on Garcia’s tobacco farm. The policemen laughed skeptically at this.
“So these communists squeeze the man for his money. These reds are causing havoc everywhere. They go around scaring all the landowners and farmers everywhere, all over Andalusia. And driving up the price of labor. And this boy is one of those same agitators. Who killed him? My suspect list would include Señor Garcia yes, but every gentleman of property in Spain. They should all want him dead. If they are rational. Many are.”
The officer blew a great cloud of smoke from his cigar. He said the same thing to Gabby and to Sophia. When the Civil Guard said this to Francisco he became angry and the policemen used it as an excuse to beat him up. His nose was broken. Several ribs were broken. His eyes were swollen shut. They were careful not to kill him and they thought highly of themselves for this.
On Sunday, after mass, the girls filed out with all the people greeting the priest as the left. The young priest looked at Gabby with pretend seriousness,
“Let every soul be subject to the higher power. For there is no power but of god. The powers that be are ordained of god. Whoever resists the power resists god, and they shall be damned.”
Do you understand the words of St. Paul, Gabriella?
Yes, father.
She went back to her room. His words stuck to her like wet clothes. They knocked something off track in her mind, and her rage multiplied. Her thoughts grew hotter and hotter.
She looked in on Francisco. He agreed with her that when he was able to go and speak with them, he must order the young men to put most of the guns back in the ground. Which he did.
Gabby had racked her brain for a month. She could not figure out how to kill the old man without leaving behind someone, most likely herself, but also possibly Francisco and his friends, possibly her father or Sophia, to take the blame and be killed or tortured by the Guardia Civil. She would have liked to kill his men too.
She though about Esteban’s murder constantly, as if it were some kind of prayer, a kind of prayer which drags you down to hell. Finally, painfully, she surrendered to the feeling that she would rather die than let his murder go unavenged a moment longer.
The following evening she lay in bed and waited for everyone to fall asleep. She arose and dressed quietly in the dark. She wore a black dress. She took the gun from her top dresser drawer and a sharp knife which she used to scale fish. She wrapped some bread and cheese in paper, and walked out into the world. It was about 1 in the morning.
It was now October. And the evening was cool as she walked down the hill. Garcia’s farm was about ten miles from La Placita, and she thought she could make it in 3 hours if she walked quickly and didn’t stop. The road was long and open and you could hear any cars coming for miles. When the wind rose so that you could not hear, you could still see the headlights reflecting from the mountains. She had to hide a few times to let the cars pass. You could also hear the horses from a long way off, but they could get spooked and give you away as they passed. She held her breath as they did, hiding in the brush.
She made it out to Garcia’s farm with lots of time. She crept along the fence line waiting for the dog. The farm was patrolled by a large angry looking black dog. But during her time working the tobacco farm they had plenty of opportunity to get to know him. At first he would growl from the edge of the firelight. But slowly they coaxed him in with the bones and scraps from the pig they had roasted.
When the dog approached he did not bark. Good boy. He pushed at her with his nose. His eyes were kind in the moonlight. She shared her bread and cheese and made her way toward the house. As she approached the back entrance, she almost bumped into a guard in the dark, who leaned drunkenly against the house, relieving himself. She waited for him to finish before bringing the butt of the old revolver down swiftly behind his ear. He fell unconscious to the ground. She knew she had come too far now. She would kill the old man and then go wake up the priest. She would give her confession and wait for the cops. She was resigned to this fate as she crept in the kitchen door.
Another of Garcia’s guards sat at a small wooden table. He was clearly struggling with a bottle of rum before him. He had bitten off a bit more than he could chew and he was very drunk. There was a set of keys on the table. An idea came to her. She pulled out the gun and cocked back the hammer. David looked up, mystified.
***
About a month before, when David and his friends heard about the coup they had organized quickly. There was a young philosopher at the University of Madrid, Romero Cruz, active in the student left, and fatally, a regular contributor of anti-clerical essays to El Sol.
The students were playing baseball on the campus lawn when David and his friends approached. David waved at the boys with a smile. He recognized Cruz, and asked for the department chair, and Cruz pointed him toward the building. Down the hall, he said. Look for the sign.
David strolled confidently toward the building. His friends sat around a bench smoking and laughing. The baseball game was underway. Someone hit a foul ball which smashed through a nearby window.
Do you prefer Plato or Aristotle? David asked.
Santiago was confused. He didn’t realize what was being asked.
Well, it’s complicated.
David’s face seem suddenly stern and impatient.
Plato.
When the young men heard the shot from inside, they opened fire on the baseball game. They were not quite indiscriminate. They were fixated on Cruz and shot him a dozen times. This allowed several of the boys to escape. The rest of them lay bloody on the grass.
David left soon after for rebel territory.
***
Gabby put a finger over her mouth. He nodded in understanding. She gestured with her pistol toward the bottle. Drink, she whispered. David was afraid but he did as he was told.
He finished the bottle and could barely see. She stood him up and walked him through the door. He had no sense at all of where he was. She put her arm around his waist and took him across the yard to a dubious looking wooden shack where the car was parked. This was the car which had kicked up dust as she watched from the olive tree as Esteban lay dying. She opened the door and pushed David in. She was prepared to struggle with him but he took her for an old sweetheart, and wrapped in this drunken delusion, David went willingly inside the car. She hit him over the head again for good measure.
She found Garcia’s room right away. He was sleeping like a baby. She wandered around the house in the dark for a long time, stuffing a pillowcase with valuables. When she was done she went back to the old man’s room. “Hey”, she said, “wake up”. The old man reacted like a cornered animal to the sound of a stranger’s voice in the dark. He shot up. “Quien es?”
His breath was rapid and unsteady and his heart was beating wildly. He fumbled for a pistol he kept under his wife’s pillow. She had died a few years before and ever since he had never felt safe sleeping alone. He had been a cruel, selfish husband. But he missed his wife after she died, and he cried out for her in that frantic moment as if he were a little boy crying for his mother. He lifted the pistol, pointed it at the sound of Gabby’s laughter, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell and there was nothing but the click of metal on metal. There had been four shots left in the revolver when she emptied it. She held the bullets in her hand now and she looked at him with dreadful cunning as she threw the bullets on the bed. He raced to put a bullet in the chamber but he could not calm himself, nor could he take his eyes off Gabby, for long. His hands were shaking and he dropped the bullet, and then the gun, and then slumped over and died.
She put him back in bed as he was, put the bullets in her pocket, and his pistol in the pillowcase. She walked out of the house.
She drove the car up along side the house to pick up the other sleeping guard. He moaned as she lifted him into the back seat. Blood oozed from the wound behind his ear. She drove the car almost all the way back to La Placita, and at the last overlook as the road meandered toward the village, there was a steep cliff, about 30 feet high. She got out of the car, and with some difficulty, pushed it off the cliff. There was a great crash and a burst of fire. She could hear screaming as she walked down the hill. It was still dark and she just made it home in time to beat the sunrise.
The Guardia Civil were divided. Some said the guards had killed the old man to rob him, perhaps after some conflict. Garcia was known for his cruel tongue which he never spared those closest to him, including these guards. Others said that the old man had died in his sleep, and the guards, having drunkenly discovered him, sloppily looted the place before fleeing. Both sides agreed that the two drunk men had driven too fast down the mountain and died as a result of the crash.
Gabby took her gun and buried it.
The next morning she grabbed a bucket and walked down the hill to Sophie’s. She woke her friend and they went down into town, past the old tower, and to the well. They talked quietly together in the still of the early dawn, filled their buckets, and trudged back up the hill.