Silencio Read online

  Silencio

  L.A. Berry

  Copyright © 2016 L. A. Berry

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events

  and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Sixteen

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Reading Group Discussion Topics and Questions

  Sixteen

  Mercedes returns home empty: with empty arms, empty womb, and empty of emotion. There is nothing left. The tears are spent.

  Between the streaks on the glass, the reflection of a teenage girl stares back. Fingers appear in the image and play with a wayward ebony curl, but her hand falls from sight when the ghost of a baby materialises. Before she has time to stroke it, the mirage vanishes, and her focus drops to her lap.

  ‘A boy or a girl?’

  She sighs, and raises her eyes. A fog muffles the words and Mercedes’ eyelids begin to close, but the woman tries once more.

  ‘Is that your baby?’

  At last, she hears the question and forces her eyes to meet those of her interrogator; she first nods, and then shakes her head. Her fingers tighten their clutch on the corner of the photograph, and she shrugs as she turns her face to the window, deaf to the drone of sympathy.

  The engine grinds to a halt and Mercedes slumps into the seat, reluctant to abandon the sanctuary of the compartment. Other passengers disembark and, through the glass, she observes their progress along the platform. She is tempted to carry on her journey without a destination, but she prises herself out of the seat. A conductor blows his whistle as she negotiates the last step. The train gathers speed and creates the breeze that caresses her calves, then the world falls silent.

  Mercedes aches for a sign of compassion from her parents; however, the vacant platform tells its story. She heaves the strap of the bag onto her shoulder and staggers; beneath the bloodstain on her blouse, the friction has left its mark. Outside of the station, she pauses and braces herself for the walk home; her route tracks the main thoroughfare of the town. Each step that she takes is leaden; her feet swelter in the winter boots that she wore on the day she left home, and every day since.

  No one appears and her carefully prepared answers are not necessary. Hiding all signs of life, slats of wood protect her neighbours’ homes from the searing heat of the afternoon sun. Unexpectedly, a shutter slams nearby. She risks a glance, but no one emerges and she resumes her shuffle, certain that she feels the darts of disapproving eyes piercing her back.

  Hampered by the weight of her burden, progress is slow. Close by, the hoo-hoo of a hidden woodpecker seems to mock her and she quickens her pace when she realises that, before long, the church bell will sound four knells, a warning that afternoon siesta is near its end.

  She yearns for a glimpse of Marie Luis, but when her eyes face upwards, her best friend isn’t on the balcony. A new crack has appeared in one of the decorative tiles on the underside of the platform; nothing else has changed. Her banishment had been swift, with neither goodbyes nor time to confide in Marie Luis. She fears that her experiences have turned her into a different person, one whom her friend would struggle to recognise.

  As Mercedes resumes her trek, the fleeting image of a new-born brushes her memory. Shaking away the vision, a rogue tear splays across her hot cheek; she brushes away the others before they are able to fall. She arrives at the orchards that mark the boundary of her family’s estate, where the sound of a sluggish river encroaches onto her thoughts. Her bag explodes onto the ground in a cloud of dust as she stumbles over to the river’s edge. The muddy bank sucks her knees as she scoops her hand into the bubbling water and raises it to moisten her lips. For a while she rests, lost in the memories of childhood play; a time when she and her friends sought escape from the burning sun in the cool fluid. A sigh escapes as she rises and turns her back on the reminiscences.

  Her destination nears and her body trembles. She averts her eyes from the bullet-ridden wall of a crumbling stone building; in forty years, the rain has failed to wash away the tattoo of blood. The fresco ignites her imagination with its reminder of her persecuted forebears. Now she empathises with their anguish; any denouncement by family pierces the heart.

  At the ancient door, embellished with elaborate carvings, she hangs back while she tries to control her tremors. On the other side, she envisages the accusing eyes of her parents. Her last sight of that door had been as her father slammed it shut behind him, and his wounding words could never be forgotten. Nor could they be forgiven.

  ‘You are a whore! And a liar!’

  His slap had left an imprint.

  ‘José could not do such a horrible thing. He is like a son to me.’

  He ignored her protests.

  ‘You led him on. With your tarty clothes. Your painted face. I can tell you now that you will never bring your bastard into my house.’

  She had been on the floor when he left; his last words echoed in her head long after his departure.

  ‘Get rid of it! Go find a woman in the village to sort you out.’

  Six months have altered Mercedes forever. Her teenage body now bears silvery lines that track the sides of her breasts and her still-softened belly. The soft rose tips of her breasts have reddened against the darker areola. Milk flows at the sound of a baby’s cry. However, it is the unseen changes that are the greatest.

  Rusty hinges groan as the door gives way to the thrust of her body. An uneven tile catches her boot so that she staggers into the jasmine-infused courtyard. She doesn’t make any attempt to catch her bag as it falls, but remains motionless while she savours the cool shadows and the fragrance of her home. The emptiness disappears and suddenly she drowns in feelings; they threaten to explode when she confronts the vision of her mother, Esperanza, rocking back and forth in the well-loved wicker chair. New strands of white have appeared at the older woman’s temples and, as the chair oscillates, her clenched hands betray her disquiet
. They rest on top of the leather-bound Bible that covers her lap. Esperanza has another Bible that she carries to church, but this one contains the family records: births, marriages and deaths, written in the hand of the local priest for eternal preservation. As in every family, there are unfinished entries, during the bloody conflict of the civil war, the fate of some unknown. Pain sears through her chest as Mercedes catches her breath; another name will now be absent from the record.

  ‘Mama?’

  The hypnotic strain of the rocker’s wheels on terracotta tiles is the only sound that challenges the silence, and Mercedes extends her palm; she can’t hold it still.

  ‘Mama? Please?’

  Mercedes falters, unable to move without a sign. An eternity seems to pass and a pounding in her head becomes louder; then her mother speaks.

  ‘You’re back.’

  The voice is familiar, yet not quite, with its harsh tone. Her legs wilt and her body teeters as she steps towards the chair. ‘I’ve been so frightened. You don’t know…’

  Esperanza raises her palm and Mercedes clamps her lips, but she knows that she must try again. ‘My son. When Sister Francisco told me…’ Something grabs her voice and her lips freeze as her mother leaps from the chair; the only sound comes from the frenzied rocking.

  ‘Wait, Mama.’ Her words catch on a sob. ‘Please let me tell you…’

  Esperanza’s back faces Mercedes and the bow of her head reveals that the brown mole in the nape of her mother’s neck is also brushed with new whispers of grey. Mercedes’ sliver of hope crumples when the older woman straightens and drags her sleeve across her eyes then turns to stare at her daughter with a blank expression on her face.

  ‘Stop. No more hysterics. It is done.’ Esperanza wipes her damp hands down the front of her dress. ‘Your father will be home soon. He doesn’t want any talk about this episode.’ She points to the bundle, abandoned on the floor. ‘Get rid of your things. And clean yourself up. Then, come help me in the kitchen.’

  There is a metallic taste in her mouth and Mercedes touches her lip; when she pulls it away, her finger reveals the red taint of blood.

  Before she passes through the doorway, Mercedes pauses to survey the bedroom. Two of the beds are in their usual state, piled with crumpled sheets and towels, and an array of jeans, blouses and underwear are heaped on the chair by the door. The corner bed is pristine, dressed with crisp sheets and a woven blanket. As she moves near, there is the scent of freshly washed linen and, when she catches sight of the pink rose at her bedside, her lips soften.

  Her mother waits, but before she leaves the room, Mercedes pauses by the laden bookshelf and trails a finger along the worn spines. The fixings haven’t given way to the erosion of the wall and, tucked between two of her favourite novels, Mercedes discovers her notebook, which bulges with wads of handwritten pages and her final school report. Señor Miguel’s praise had been the excuse for a family celebration. If she continues to write at this level, Mercedes will be a strong candidate for university entrance. Now it is impossible to recollect her excitement as she scans the list of names on the reverse. At the top, with five red ticks by its side, Universidad de Madrid warrants prime position. Underneath each academy is a list of courses; the male-dominated ones eliminated with a thick black line. Next to periodismo she had drawn a golden star and she remembers the enthusiasm of her teacher. Perfect. Journalism will give you all kinds of opportunities.

  The paper becomes a wrinkled mass that she lets fall into the waste bin as she leaves the room.

  No one comments that Mercedes’ plate remains clean. Every member of the family is in their place around the table; they share the chorizo sausages, chick pea stew and patatas bravas, all served from earthenware dishes stockpiled in the centre. Her stomach is full, even though she can’t remember when she last ate a meal. Rosa, her youngest sister, sits at her side and, while the others eat and talk, Mercedes feels a small hand slip into hers. Rosa’s cheeks flush and she beams when Mercedes whispers a thank you for the rose.

  Her father doesn’t acknowledge Mercedes; her recent absence is ignored. His voice projects over the others as he discusses harvests, money and cars with her older brother, Sanchez. Inching down in her chair, Mercedes remains mute, unable to pretend that all is normal. Voices are familiar, but come from a distance. Her mother’s chatter fills any silence; she speaks of her plans for the flowers at next week’s fiesta when they will pay tribute to their dead relatives. There is one moment when Isabel, her twin if Mercedes had been born 11 months earlier, catches her eye but Enrique, the baby brother who shocked her parents with his arrival two years ago, drops something from his highchair and the connection shatters.

  A full moon shimmers against the black sky and rays stream into the room as she sinks onto the bed. Her arms are heavy across her empty belly. On the wall above the mahogany bedhead hangs an image of the Virgin Mary, adorned with a piece of white veil from her first communion. She scrutinises the revered face and wonders at the experience they had in common, and whether Mary’s parents named her a whore, albeit she protested her innocence. It seems impossible that the gentle mother had found the strength to survive long months of travel, to labour in a stable. Mercedes squeezes a pillow to her breasts; the pressure calms the ache. Had Mary loved Jesus from the first moment that she held her baby, touched his skin, and kissed his brow?

  Mercedes isn’t able to remember how long it was before her own dismay turned into hate, and then what changed it to love. Maybe it was when she heard a distant baby’s cry, or perhaps while she was with another exiled mother-in-waiting, but a day dawned when she decided to embrace her fate as an unmarried mother. The disapproving nuns had been relentless in their efforts to change her mind.

  ‘Give your child a decent chance. A child needs two parents.’

  ‘You’ll be outcasts.’

  ‘You’re unnatural. Why do you want to keep him? You tell us that you were forced; why remind yourself of that?’

  At the end, the battle was futile and an outside force made the decision.

  The ache eases from her limbs and Mercedes’ eyelids surrender to the night. An image of her baby gate-crashes the peace when it appears against the backdrop of her closed lids, captured for her memory in that moment before he was snatched from between her legs.

  ‘He needs help to breathe,’ Sister Francisco had murmured as she left the delivery room carrying the bloodied bundle of towels.

  That was the last time she saw him: a tiny being, covered in white paste and blood. Her baby’s cry lingered, long after he vanished from the room. Etched in her recollection are those flashes from the moment of his birth: the shape of his head, the movement of his leg with its purple foot that escaped from the wrappings, and the tune of his muffled mews.

  Minutes later, Sister Francisco had shown her the photo. Her baby, white. Eyes closed. Dead. His dark hair looked wet and clung to a bulge on the top of his head. When the nurse attempted to prise her fingers open and release the crumpled image, Mercedes had snatched it back and screamed at her to stay away as she held it against her heart.

  There is a giggle and someone says ‘shush’ as her sisters push the door open; she turns her face into the damp pillow and feigns sleep. The sounds of chatter abate and soon their slumbering sounds echo around the room, a lullaby that soothes her tortured mind.

  She wakes to her own scream, but her sisters don’t hear her nightmare and they sleep on while she sits up in bed with her face in her hands. The mist is faded in her mind and disbelief hounds her sanity as she reaches under the covers to withdraw her treasure. She brings it close, wondering if she is mistaken. The photo is not the same image of her bald baby that is captured in her memory. Her heart begins to race, her skin becomes clammy, and she kicks away the covers; possibilities create chaos in her mind. Is some other woman the mother of that infant with his lifeless face, framed with the dark hair that exposes the truth? Why did the nun show her this photo? Her baby cried. Where is he
r baby? He’s alive; of that, she is certain.

  The collar of the nightdress is too tight and she flees the room, tearing at it with her fingernails. She is unaware of the lesions on her neck and does not feel the blood trickle over her skin as she seeks out a place in the orchard where she can give way to her fury. A nearby owl accompanies her lament.

  Chapter 1

  Madrid 1995

  The gaze of the carved angel, Lucifer, nestled amongst the roses of Retiro Park, seems to follow her progress, and Mercedes shudders and averts her eyes as she hurries past his dwelling; his banishment into hell haunted the dreams of her childhood. She forces out the memory and heads for the haven that she has spotted ahead, a canopy of green branches that protects a metal bench from the sun’s fire. She sinks onto the seat and lifts her curls onto the top of her head, securing the damp locks with a clip. She closes her eyes, allowing her chin to fall to her chest and the headache that has plagued her all morning eases as the tension ebbs from her neck and shoulders. For a few minutes, she is at peace with her lids lowered and her mind blank, but the scent of jasmine reminds Mercedes of her mother and the past. Tears gather and she tries to banish them with the back of her hand but the spectre of a baby floats at the fringes of her memories, a ghostly image that is her constant companion. The swaddling will have given way to football boots and jeans as her son turns ten, but Mercedes knows that she will recognise his face when she finds him, no matter how many birthdays he has celebrated.

  Her hand reaches up to the knot of hair and curls bounce along her shoulders as she shakes away the musings. Moulding her back to the curve of the bench, she stretches her legs out onto the path while her fingers release the catch of the press pass, unpinning it from her lapel, and lower it onto her lap. No ring adorns her finger; no one has managed to break through the barrier that protects her emotions.

  While she contemplates the morning’s events, her hands manipulate the badge in a succession of somersaults, a dance in her lap. Chaos had reigned in the court waiting room with representation from all of the local papers and she had been one of many journalists in the crowd, dwarfed by the height of the men and overlooked by the interviewees. The hours spent in preparation of her questions had been a waste. Mercedes digs out her bottle of water and holds it against her hot cheeks while she tries to erase the memory of her impotence. The struggle to make her mark in her profession never eases.