Asturias (7 page)

Now it's not easy for three people to walk side by side with their arms linked along George Street at lunchtime on a Monday. People give you the filthiest looks, and make exactly the kind of comments you'd expect from frustrated wage-slaves with forty minutes between them and starvation. But you're never going to see them again, and they probably won't remember the incident themselves a minute after they sit back down at their desks, so in the scheme of things it probably isn't such a big deal.

So what's there to get all embarrassed about? Nothing of course. And any normal, semi-intelligent individual over the age of ten should know that. But it doesn't stop us worrying about what a few hundred complete strangers might think when they see us for a few seconds out of their entire lives.

Like I said, it's not easy for three people to walk with their arms linked along a crowded city street. But it's even harder when the two individuals on the outside start skipping, and singing excerpts from
The Wizard of Oz
at the tops of their voices.

Halfway through “We're Off to See the Wizard”, I thought we'd lost her. I could feel her trying to pull her arm free, but I kept it trapped between my elbow and my body. I could sense it was the moment of truth. If she pulled away then, we'd lose her — maybe forever.

I kept singing, but I slid a look across at Chrissie. She winked, then hissed to our red-faced captive, “Come on, Dorothy, you ain't in Kansas anymore. You promised, remember?”

I saw Tasha's head turn and a look passed between them, which I only caught the Chrissie-half of. It was enough. She stopped resisting, and her feet picked up the rhythm of the song.

By the time we skipped past the Village complex, she was singing louder than either of us. And the words of the version we'd worked out would have set the straw-man on fire and had Judy Garland spinning in her grave.

Which must have convinced Chrissie that her pupil was ready for Round Two.

It's one thing to act like a lunatic out in the street, but it's quite another thing to do it in a confined space—which is, of course, exactly what we did next. And the most confined space yet invented by personkind is also the easiest place in which to really embarrass someone.

Next time you get into a lift, think about the rules that everyone obeys once they step through the sliding doors. They're rules everyone knows, but nobody knows
how
they know them. They aren't printed and stuck to the walls, you aren't taught them at school, and the police probably couldn't enforce them. But they
are
rules.

Most lifts will have signs telling you how many people can fit in safely, some will even tell you that you can't smoke. But you will never see a sign saying, Passengers Must Face the Front of the Lift. So how come everyone always does?

We didn't.

We also didn't obey the other unwritten law of elevator-travel — namely that no one stares at anything but their own feet, or the numbers above the door.

When we stepped in, the lift was almost full. We stood just inside the doors, facing the back of the lift, and Chrissie pressed the button for the top floor, then started looking from face to face, studying each one in turn, as if she was looking for pimples or something.

Now, skipping along the street singing “Follow the Yellow-Brick Road” is one thing, but even I find it tough doing the one-to-one silent stare in a lift full of nine-to-fivers who are peeved enough already at having to go back for the afternoon shift.

Alex,
I told myself silently,
it's for Task
.

And I followed Chrissie's example.

Pretty soon, Tasha joined in. She started the easy way, by studying my face, but then I could feel her take a breath, turn, and look straight at the woman in front of her.

I sneaked a glance at the woman's face. She didn't know what to make of us, and I could see her brain working overtime behind her blank expression.

The lift stopped and a few people pushed past, but the woman remained. As the door closed again, she took half a step backwards, then appeared to change her mind, and swayed forwards again.

At the back of the car a man's voice whispered, “Bloody teenagers,” and a couple of the passengers looked decidedly uncomfortable. So did Tasha. I wasn't sure how long she could last.

Then the lift stopped again, and the woman in front of her stepped forward to leave the car. But just before she did, she winked at the two of us, smiled, and kissed Natassia on the cheek. I'll never figure out what made her do it, but I felt Tash relax immediately. She turned and watched the woman until the door closed, but the woman never looked back.

By the time we reached the end of the line, we were the only ones in the lift, and we were sitting on the floor, cracking up. Tasha was laughing louder than anyone.

A bit of
a capella
busking and some soft shoe tap-dancing near the entrance to the park and we were about ready to call it quits for the afternoon. Chrissie was smiling and looking pleased with herself, and as we made our way down Elizabeth Street Tasha took hold of our arms, linked up, and began a reprise of “We're Off to See …”

I began to understand how Doctor Frankenstein must have felt, but Chrissie had joined in, so what the hell?

MAX'S STORY

They didn't ever tell me what they did, but I noticed the difference in Tasha straight away.

There were still problems to be ironed out, but the light at the end of the tunnel was beginning to look less and less like an on-coming train.

Symonds' money looked safer by the day, and by the time the six months were over, we were ready.

As ready as you can ever be in this business.

12

SIDES

ABUELITO

Loneliness is an itch that cannot be scratched. A feeling with no centre. An emptiness without boundaries.

The boy is late. As usual. His father is working.

Nothing is new.

But this is not the source of the old man's loneliness. What he feels at this moment can strike when the house is full and conversation is bouncing from person to person like a soccer-ball from player to player. It is a sickness of the soul, and he has lived with it off and on since he was not much older than the boy is now. Since the night the music died.

He sits in the small chair beside his bed, holding in his hands the picture from the dresser.

They were happy then. In the middle of the horror that was tearing their world from its foundations, they had love. And family.

And music …

31 March 1937
Arenys de Mar

The
gringo
holds the camera and shouts an instruction in his own language, before he realises the futility of it. No one in the group in front of him appears to understand a word he is saying. Reluctantly he switches to his pidgin-Spanish, which proves almost as fruitless.

“Juntos … y … y … rian.”

“I think,” Ardillo whispers, pausing in his playing for a moment, “that our
yanqui
friend would like us to stay still for a moment. And Manuel, this time try to smile, instead of hiding behind Conchita. You ruined the picture last time.”

Behind them the Mediterranean flashes blue in the late morning sun, and the American is captivated by the beauty of the scene. At this moment, he is more like a
turista
than afreedom-fighter. The anger that led him to volunteer to come to Spain and fight the Fascist threat lies dormant under the gentle breeze, and for a short time the war seems nothing more than a bad dream which has boiled itself out, leaving in its place this perfect morning.

But it is this morning that is the dream, and the American is no
turista.
He is a soldier. As they all are. Soldiers. Even Francisco, who has just begun to shave and who has never loved a woman.

The journey on foot from Consuegra to Aranjuez, and the train-trip to Valencia, then up the coast to Barcelona. Then walking again, thirty kilometres in the Spring sunshine to this untouched coastal paradise. Before the Generals'
pronun-ciamiento,
these things might have been the stuff of dreams. But no more.

Arenys. A haven, safe on the Catalonian coast, as far from the fighting as it is possible to be. What better place to train the secret cells of volunteers who will do the bidding of the Brigade leaders closer to the front?

But for the next few days the war can be forgotten. Their training complete, they must wait for transportation home. A small truck is scheduled to leave within the week, and they will travel in it. With the radio and other equipment that they will need to set up their cell, a return journey by train is out of the question,
so
they sit beside the beach and listen to Ardillo's music, while the
gringo
practises his
fotografia.

And the sun is shining …

* *

The old man is sleeping in the chair when the boy returns.

Lifting the picture from his grandfather's limp hands, he looks at the faces smiling out from behind the glass, with the sea shining behind them a little out of focus.

Five faces. He is reminded of the “informal” publicity shots of the band that Max ordered a few days earlier. The machinery is beginning to kick into gear. It is already travelling too fast to jump off.

Just as it was for these five, in spite of the smiles, almost six decades earlier.

He recalls the stories. They are as much a part of him as the memories of his own life. Somehow it is as if the picture he holds has frozen reality at a moment of joy. Perhaps the last one, for within a few short weeks, two of the smiling group would be dead, and one as good as.

“We were so young … Too young.”

Abuelito's voice draws his gaze to the old man's face. He is awake now.

The boy places the picture into his grandfather's outstretched hand, and watches as the old man stands to place it back on the top of the dresser. Its place is marked by a clean line in the dust on the surface, and the old man positions it exactly.

“What made you join the Brigades?”

As he speaks, Alex sits on the bed and draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Abuelito turns and moves slowly towards the chair, sitting carefully before replying.

“What
make
us …?” He pauses, as if the question has no meaning. “The Generals, the
pronunciamiento,
the bloodstained dwarf … You have to understand, boy. In … civil war there is no …
neutrales
…”

“Neutrals?”

“Sí. Is no … neutrals when one half of the country is fight with other half. Before war, the Republic is … sick, like an old man. But Franco and his generals, they worse than sick. They evil. They need for the power like … drug. Some men … You give them uniform, they think they know what is best. For everyone. But farmer is not same as soldier. Bullet is not same as vote. Freedom is …”

For a moment he pauses, as if he has lost the train of what he is saying. Then he shakes his head, to free it from the distant echoes, and he continues.

“What
make
us? Maybe because we remember Asturias.”

“Asturias?”

All the boy can think of is the music that he sometimes plays.
Asturias.
It has been one of his favourite pieces since …

We
remember Asturias.
It makes no sense.

The old man reads the confusion in the boy's expression. He leans forward and touches him on the hand.

“Juana, your
abuelita,
you know she lives there, in the north, before her father take them to Madrid?”

The boy nods. That much he remembers.

“You know why he take them?”

He doesn't.

“In nineteen and thirty-four, the miners they strike in Asturias. Forty thousand men. The army go in. They kill two thousand men, torture more thousands. Terrible tortures. You know who leads the soldiers?”

No answer. The boy waits.

“El Caudillo.
Franco the dwarf. The executioner. After the thumbscrew and the broken knees and the electrical shock … after the
bienio negro
… no one in Asturias trust the government. Not even when the Socialists get back.”

Bienio negro …
the two black years. Suddenly he can understand Abuelita's father getting his family out.

And he can understand why the brothers chose the side they chose.

“Did you ever regret it? Fighting on the losing side, I mean?”

The old man's gaze drifts towards the dresser, and he focuses on the old photograph as he speaks.

“Regret?
Sí,
Alejandro, I regret. That it was not the winning side …”

13

FAMILY

CLAIRE'S STORY

You had to love him. Alex, I mean.

Even when he was being hard to get on with.

I suppose I could understand him getting nervous. The fun and games were over, and the real thing was about to get under way.

Trouble was, with Alex nervous usually means bad-tempered. Not violent or anything, just … impatient, I guess.

Like when they were choosing a name for the band. Nothing was right.

Mind you, considering the names that everyone was coming up with, I was getting pretty fed-up myself. It has to be one of the hardest jobs in the world. It seems like all the good ones have been taken already.

Max could have got the creative whiz-kids from marketing to come up with a name, but he didn't want to. One of the things I always admired about the man was the way he bent over sideways to make sure the members of the band actually “owned” the band. In spite of the fact that Symonds didn't approve of the concept.

It would have been so easy for Max to just dictate. To tell them what to play, what to wear, what to say. It had been done before. Lots of times.

But not this time.

“We're in this thing for the long haul,” he said, more than once. “This has to be your choice.”

The rules for choosing a name were the same as they'd been for auditioning new band members. Two vetoes, and it was thrown out. No questions asked. So the name had to be chosen by at least four out of the five.

Which accounted, at least in part, for the problem they had coming up with anything.

In the end, Alex got a dose of the toms and walked over to the bench at the back of the booth. He picked up his guitar, and began to play. As if there was no one else there.

Whenever he was in one of those moods, it was always classical. You might expect heavy metal, or thrash or something, but I think he used the music to calm himself down. I guess the discipline drove all the bullshit emotions out.

Anyway, this time it was a piece I recognised. I couldn't recall the name, but I remembered it like I'd heard it yesterday. It was the piece he'd played to impress me, the first time we'd met.

I was impressed all over again.

And I wasn't the only one it had that effect on.

The arguments stopped, and the others turned to listen.

“Not bad, Alexi.” Chrissie moved over to stand next to him. She had more names for him — Al, Sandro, Sandy, Handy, and a few less complimentary — but “Alexi” was a new one.

For the moment the search for a band name was forgotten. I watched Max's face. He was smiling at first, then he looked impressed, too. His features settled into the expression he always had when there was a brainstorm coming.

“Forget the name for a minute.”

Everyone turned to face him, and Alex stopped playing.

Max continued, “Everyone except Tasha, into the studio.” And he ushered them through the door.

Behind the glass I could see him gesturing to them as they began to break out their instruments. I looked at Tash and she just shrugged.

A few seconds later he came back in through the door, still speaking over his shoulder.

“… I'll give you five minutes to work something out.”

“Brainstorm?” I offered.

“Flash of inspiration,” he replied, and sat down at the console, turning switches and adjusting slide controls like a professional. Max was a man of many talents.

Tasha stood at the back of the booth with her arms crossed, smiling.

“And when do we get let in on this ‘flash'?”

Max looked into the studio where the others were busy with their instruments. He had the speakers turned off so there was no sound coming through. At last he turned to face Natassia.

“I'd say in about three or four minutes. You can save the applause till then.”

“It wasn't applause I had in mind.” There was a lighthearted threat in her tone, as she moved up and sat beside him. “And how come I'm not in there with them?”

“Because there's nothing in there for you to do. But don't worry, Natassia, my love. That's all part of the beauty of it. You'll love it. I guarantee.”

It took a little longer than five minutes but eventually Alex signalled, and Max nodded in reply, turning the switch at last, so that the sounds from the studio fed into the huge monitor speakers attached to the walls at both ends of the booth's soundproof window.

I don't know what I expected, but what I got left me breathless.

For about thirty-two bars it was just Alex. He was playing the same piece, but on an electric, and the feel was different. Harder, more driving. Almost rock.

Then Chrissie came in, her bass cutting across the rhythm and driving it along with more power. When Tim cut in a few bars later, I was beginning to see where the whole thing was leading.

They didn't change to the slow movement, they just repeated the driving accent of the opening part, and when Marco crashed in to complete the deal, I knew exactly what Max had in mind.

This was the opening number for the live gig. A way to get the band on stage and knock the audience over. What had begun as a classical guitar piece was now something unique and totally theirs.

I turned to Tash. She was watching them, rapt, then a look crossed her face. A slight frown. It was gone in an instant, but I caught it, and I sensed what it might be.

The music reached a climax and crashed to a sudden silence, but before anyone could breathe, Alex, Marco and Chrissie launched into the opening riff of “Catch Me if You Can”, and I saw the tension disappear from Tasha's expression.

It was a song they'd written as a showpiece for her, and it flowed so naturally from what had just gone before that the whole powerful opening seemed like one huge introduction to Tasha K.

I could just see her appearing onstage through an explosion of smoke and pyrotechnics. No one ever had a better entrance vehicle. And Tasha knew it.

She looked across at Max, but he just shrugged smugly.

“It's what they pay me for.”

She moved across and kissed him.

“They don't pay you enough.”

I looked through the glass. The others were on their way into the booth. You could tell they were pleased with themselves.

Alex came in first.

“It was a bit rough, but with a bit of work —”

“It might make a halfway decent opener,” Chrissie cut in. She turned to Max. “Good move, boss.”

That was the first time I sensed that there might be more between those two than the band. It wasn't anything I could put my finger on, but there was something in the look she gave him and the way he returned it.

No one else seemed to notice anything. They were far too involved in what had just occurred.

“Any questions?” Max was holding court. I suddenly realised just how important these kids had become to the guy. It was more than just a project to him, now. This was as close to family as you were ever likely to get without sharing blood. I guess I was beginning to feel the same way, and I wasn't even a part of the band. I was just Alex's girl.

I know. It sounds trite. Straight out of the sixties. But that's not the way it was. It's just that there's no easy way to explain what had grown between us. In a few weeks I'd got close to someone in a way I'd never been close to anyone before. Not even — especially not — my parents.

I'd always had everything they could buy me. Just as long as they didn't have to get too close — to me, or to each other.

So I was his. And he was mine.

It wasn't any kind of soppy, romantic, write-your-name-in-a-love-heart thing. It was just something we both knew. Like you know anything really important: without words. And often without even touching.

You could never accuse Alejandro Garcia Lorca Rivera of being free with his emotions. At least, not in public. It was only on-stage, and whenever he had a guitar in his hands, that you could really catch a glimpse of what was going on behind that beautiful face of his.

But
I
knew. I always knew. And he knew I did. That was how I knew he was mine.

So if these guys were family to him, I guess they were to me too. The first family I'd had for a very long time.

“What's it called?” Tasha was sitting on the edge of the console, something she would never have got away with if Terry had been there.

“Asturias.” Alex looked at me as he replied, and smiled. He hadn't forgotten. “It's the thing I play when I want to impress the girls.” He was still holding my gaze. “It works every time.”

“That's
it!”
Tim cut in. “Asturias.”

“That's what?” Marco was leaning against the doorframe, holding his sticks in one hand and a Coke in the other.

“The name for the band. ‘Asturias'. It's got just the right ring to it. We can make it the opening track on the first album and use it as a signature. It can't miss.”

Finally they had a name that everyone agreed on.

It was as easy as that.