Ramón stared towards the Laguna Rosa, where the flamingos dipped their heads into the lagoon for the shrimps which would tinted their feathers pink. The colour of the lagoon reminded him of the water in the enamelled basin, the médico had squeezed his cloth in, as he cleaned his wounds. He removed his spectacles, held them on his lap, and closed his eyes.
‘Mamá, Josefina and I walked from our home to the market. Little Josefina, trying to look important, carried a woven basket over her arm, and I clutched a toy car Papa made. It was a late April afternoon. The sky was cloudless, a delicate blue.’ Ramón released a soft laugh. ‘In Spain it always is, no?’
Seb remained silent, not wishing to interrupt the flow of his grandfather’s narrative.
‘A loud thrumming sound echoed around the street. Everyone looked around, expecting the approach of a vehicle, a large truck or some such thing. Then following in the noise’s wake: Bang! Boom!… Bang! Now everyone is looking into the sky. Of course, I saw nothing. I was a small child hemmed in by the legs of the adults. My abiding memory of that moment is the smell of oranges.’
‘Oranges?’
‘Yes, oranges. A bomb exploded nearby. The surrounding air quivered, and I felt the ground tremble under me. Mamá, holding Josefina close to her breast, turned away, and I hid behind the thin fabric of her skirt. The noise was dreadful: thunderclaps; screams; shouts. Dust and grit and slivers of glass rushed between legs to sting and cut skin. A woman nearer to the blast, her face a mask of blood, floundered, upending the merchant’s table. With wide eyes, I watched as oranges cascaded to the ground. They bounced and rolled through the shadows and the segments of bright sunlight, until crushed to pulp under the espadrilles of the scattering people. Mamá, with Josefina still in her arms, grabbed my wrist and we ran into a passageway where we crouched against the stone wall. Mamá muttered prayers to the Virgin Mary. Pressed into me she smelled of…’
The words trailed away as Ramón sucked in a deep breath. Seb reached through the silent void to touch his grandfather’s hand. He cleared his throat and continued in a whisper.
‘Huddled in that dark passageway, I could smell the soap on Mamá’s skin and in her hair. It was strange, amid the stench of smoke, of fire, of cordite, to smell lavender. Soon, the bombing seemed more distant and Mamá decided we would leave our shelter to return home. She explained how we would cross the wide boulevard, run past the wreckage of the market stalls, the bodies, and the splintered trees, and into the narrow street opposite. Holding Josefina with one hand and me with the other, she led us across the rubble and glass strewn road. In the hazy sky, I could see the grey cruciforms of the sluggish bombers. Then a darker, more threatening shape flitted through the swirling smoke. The menacing roar was so loud! I heard my mother scream we must run. Even now I hear her voice, “¡Rápido!…¡Rápido!” Then … then my precious toy car slipped from my fingers…’
As his grandfather faltered, Seb pressed the fingertips of one hand against his forehead, his stomach clenched with the fear of knowing.
‘All that cold night I sat in the narrow passage, our sanctuary from the bombs, staring at the tattered remains of my mother and my sister in the middle of the road. Watching the hem of Mamá’s dress flutter in the breeze, I relived the moment I pulled my hand from my mother’s grasp: running back to pick up my toy; Mamá stopping, Mamà shouting; a dragon spitting fire; the heavy chatter of machine guns; violent puffs of dust stalking along the road towards Mamá and Josefina. I was left standing, listening as silence swallowed the dying sound of the departing Messerschmitt, the jubilant pilot dipping its wings.’
Sandy Scribbler 