fugitive, a quiet lawyer, a resigned wrestler, a Madrileño far from Madrid, like every man who had ever felt that, for one fleeting instant, perhaps the time had come to make peace with himself. Raquel understood none of this, but she knew that something important was happening; she was certain of it when her grandfather took his wife’s hand and squeezed it and her grandmother laughed.
‘And what if they hadn’t had vermouth on tap, eh?’ Her grandmother was as happy as he was. ‘Really, Ignacio, you’re so stubborn . . .’
That morning, Raquel did not yet know that, as a young man studying law in the magnificent old building that housed the Universidad Central on Calle de San Bernardo, Ignacio Fernández Muñoz would head home after class, stopping at every bar along the way, and in every bar he would ask for a vermouth on tap, and with every glass he got a complimentary tapa or snack. His granddaughter had never heard him tell this story. For years, what her Grandfather Aurelio had missed about Spain was the sea, not the huge waves, the vast expanses of sandy beach, the subtle evanescence of the horizon, but a tangible piece of sea, a small strip of water in Andalucía he could call his own, where he could sit in the shade of a vine on the patio of his shimmering whitewashed house surrounded by orchards, far from the town and the beach. Raquel knew this, and she knew that her Grandma Rafaela had missed two things, grilled sardines and music. ‘I’ve always loved to sing,’ she would say, ‘I can’t tell you how much I loved it, but you can’t do it here, it’s stupid, but when I first started working as a cleaner for a doctor - he was a comrade, a good person - in Nîmes after our war I used to sing to myself while I was working and he’d always say, don’t sing like that, Rafaela, it sounds like you’re in pain. Obviously, they never sing, they don’t even sing at parties . . .’
Raquel had heard this story many times, and she had seen her grandmother in the kitchen of her house in Torre del Mar, dancing by herself to the radio. Her smile was like the smile of Grandma Anita when she opened the parcel they brought back from Spain every September when half a dozen tins of anchovies and a string of dried peppers seemed to be transformed into something else, as if Spain itself, the air, the soil, the mountains, the trees, the language and the people, could be glimpsed through the cracks in this cardboard box, as if its best, its purest essence were distilled in the purple of the aubergines whose skin her grandmother stroked with a tremor of longing. ‘Beautiful, hijo , beautiful, just look how beautiful they are . . .’ Raquel knew that, as she looked at those aubergines, her Grandmother Anita was happier than her little brother Mateo when he saw his Christmas presents. But not until that morning in September had it ever occurred to Raquel that her Grandfather Ignacio, who was always so quick to tell his wife that of course they had aubergines in France, also missed something.
‘The sky, I missed the sky,’ he told her that same afternoon when it finally occurred to her to ask him, and she listened as he rattled off a whole string of other things, as though he had spent the past thirty-six years secretly preparing for this conversation. ‘The light of morning, especially in winter, the pure, dry air that slashes at your face and wakes you up inside. Tap water, the water here tastes better than any mineral water in the world. The first signs of spring in February, though they are also so fleeting, so illusory, and do not last long, but the joy of stepping out into the street to take the sun, with no umbrella, no coat, and the pavement cafés suddenly full of people . . .’ He looked at her and shook his head. ‘I’ve often thought back to February in Madrid, you know. I thought about it every day of every February of every year I lived in France. And the bars, the streets, going out early in the
‘And what if they hadn’t had vermouth on tap, eh?’ Her grandmother was as happy as he was. ‘Really, Ignacio, you’re so stubborn . . .’
That morning, Raquel did not yet know that, as a young man studying law in the magnificent old building that housed the Universidad Central on Calle de San Bernardo, Ignacio Fernández Muñoz would head home after class, stopping at every bar along the way, and in every bar he would ask for a vermouth on tap, and with every glass he got a complimentary tapa or snack. His granddaughter had never heard him tell this story. For years, what her Grandfather Aurelio had missed about Spain was the sea, not the huge waves, the vast expanses of sandy beach, the subtle evanescence of the horizon, but a tangible piece of sea, a small strip of water in Andalucía he could call his own, where he could sit in the shade of a vine on the patio of his shimmering whitewashed house surrounded by orchards, far from the town and the beach. Raquel knew this, and she knew that her Grandma Rafaela had missed two things, grilled sardines and music. ‘I’ve always loved to sing,’ she would say, ‘I can’t tell you how much I loved it, but you can’t do it here, it’s stupid, but when I first started working as a cleaner for a doctor - he was a comrade, a good person - in Nîmes after our war I used to sing to myself while I was working and he’d always say, don’t sing like that, Rafaela, it sounds like you’re in pain. Obviously, they never sing, they don’t even sing at parties . . .’
Raquel had heard this story many times, and she had seen her grandmother in the kitchen of her house in Torre del Mar, dancing by herself to the radio. Her smile was like the smile of Grandma Anita when she opened the parcel they brought back from Spain every September when half a dozen tins of anchovies and a string of dried peppers seemed to be transformed into something else, as if Spain itself, the air, the soil, the mountains, the trees, the language and the people, could be glimpsed through the cracks in this cardboard box, as if its best, its purest essence were distilled in the purple of the aubergines whose skin her grandmother stroked with a tremor of longing. ‘Beautiful, hijo , beautiful, just look how beautiful they are . . .’ Raquel knew that, as she looked at those aubergines, her Grandmother Anita was happier than her little brother Mateo when he saw his Christmas presents. But not until that morning in September had it ever occurred to Raquel that her Grandfather Ignacio, who was always so quick to tell his wife that of course they had aubergines in France, also missed something.
‘The sky, I missed the sky,’ he told her that same afternoon when it finally occurred to her to ask him, and she listened as he rattled off a whole string of other things, as though he had spent the past thirty-six years secretly preparing for this conversation. ‘The light of morning, especially in winter, the pure, dry air that slashes at your face and wakes you up inside. Tap water, the water here tastes better than any mineral water in the world. The first signs of spring in February, though they are also so fleeting, so illusory, and do not last long, but the joy of stepping out into the street to take the sun, with no umbrella, no coat, and the pavement cafés suddenly full of people . . .’ He looked at her and shook his head. ‘I’ve often thought back to February in Madrid, you know. I thought about it every day of every February of every year I lived in France. And the bars, the streets, going out early in the
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