morning when everyone is still asleep, buying the paper and having breakfast in a café at a table by the window, reading the paper while the regulars make comments on the news . . .’
‘You like that?’ his granddaughter interrupted him, surprised.
‘Of course I do.’ He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment and then laughed. ‘What is it? You think that’s strange?’
‘Very strange. It’s much nicer to have breakfast at home in your pyjamas all toasty and warm . . .’
‘That’s exactly what your grandmother used to say, but I always hated having breakfast at home. Of course, there’s something I hate more - bars that try to rush you, where they’re eager to be rid of you, but that’s why I missed the bars here in Spain where a long leisurely breakfast can run straight into the aperitif . . .’ He paused for a moment. ‘It’s not easy living without the aperitif . . . It’s a ridiculous habit - a pointless little snack, my mother always said it was bad for you, because it doesn’t whet your appetite, it fills you up, a couple of glasses of vermouth, a few anchovies, a few crisps, and so on until by the time you get home, you’re full up, but you’re so tipsy, so happy and relaxed, you go straight to bed, have a little nap and by nine o’clock you feel ready to start again. Spending your life in bars, that’s what it means to be rich, what it means to really live. It’s not like I got to enjoy much of life - three paltry years - because after that war broke out, the fascists moved quickly, they took Toledo and they kept advancing, then one night while we were having dinner we heard that the government was planning to leave Madrid, heading for Valencia, leaving us behind, because in their minds the city was as good as lost . . .’
By this point, Raquel had realised that her grandfather was no longer talking to her, to a seven-year-old girl who was only dimly aware that once upon a time in Spain there had been a war and that her family had lost the war and that’s why they went to live in France, which was just as well because the ones who stayed behind were all killed. She also knew that it had something to do with her Grandmother Anita’s two fixations - she wouldn’t eat apricots and she refused to speak the name of the village where she was born - but Raquel went on listening to her grandfather with rapt attention, as though she understood what he was saying, because his eyes were shining like the eyes of a much younger man, and when he looked at her she felt warm inside.
‘I’ll never forget that night as long as I live. The news wasn’t official, and a lot of people didn’t think it was important, but we were politically aware, so for us the government leaving was really them running away - more than that, it was a betrayal, the first of many . . . My father, who was a staunch republican, had been in a foul temper for the past two weeks, he was livid that Azaña had fled to France - never forget, the president of the republic was the first to run away. My brother Mateo, the one who found out the government had met with all the political parties to tell them that it was impossible to defend Madrid, was so furious he didn’t even try to defend the war minister Largo, who was a socialist just as he was . . . But the one who took it worst was my brother-in-law Carlos, who was married to my sister Paloma, la bella Paloma , we called her, you remember her, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Raquel remembered her, an old woman with white hair who looked like she could be her grandparents’ mother. She used to live with her sister María on the outskirts of Paris, but she seemed mad and never went out. ‘But I didn’t think she was pretty.’
‘She was . . . She was very pretty, the prettiest woman I’ve ever known.’
‘Prettier than Grandma?’ his granddaughter asked, puzzled, because until that day Anita Salgado Pérez had held the title of the most beautiful woman in the
‘You like that?’ his granddaughter interrupted him, surprised.
‘Of course I do.’ He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment and then laughed. ‘What is it? You think that’s strange?’
‘Very strange. It’s much nicer to have breakfast at home in your pyjamas all toasty and warm . . .’
‘That’s exactly what your grandmother used to say, but I always hated having breakfast at home. Of course, there’s something I hate more - bars that try to rush you, where they’re eager to be rid of you, but that’s why I missed the bars here in Spain where a long leisurely breakfast can run straight into the aperitif . . .’ He paused for a moment. ‘It’s not easy living without the aperitif . . . It’s a ridiculous habit - a pointless little snack, my mother always said it was bad for you, because it doesn’t whet your appetite, it fills you up, a couple of glasses of vermouth, a few anchovies, a few crisps, and so on until by the time you get home, you’re full up, but you’re so tipsy, so happy and relaxed, you go straight to bed, have a little nap and by nine o’clock you feel ready to start again. Spending your life in bars, that’s what it means to be rich, what it means to really live. It’s not like I got to enjoy much of life - three paltry years - because after that war broke out, the fascists moved quickly, they took Toledo and they kept advancing, then one night while we were having dinner we heard that the government was planning to leave Madrid, heading for Valencia, leaving us behind, because in their minds the city was as good as lost . . .’
By this point, Raquel had realised that her grandfather was no longer talking to her, to a seven-year-old girl who was only dimly aware that once upon a time in Spain there had been a war and that her family had lost the war and that’s why they went to live in France, which was just as well because the ones who stayed behind were all killed. She also knew that it had something to do with her Grandmother Anita’s two fixations - she wouldn’t eat apricots and she refused to speak the name of the village where she was born - but Raquel went on listening to her grandfather with rapt attention, as though she understood what he was saying, because his eyes were shining like the eyes of a much younger man, and when he looked at her she felt warm inside.
‘I’ll never forget that night as long as I live. The news wasn’t official, and a lot of people didn’t think it was important, but we were politically aware, so for us the government leaving was really them running away - more than that, it was a betrayal, the first of many . . . My father, who was a staunch republican, had been in a foul temper for the past two weeks, he was livid that Azaña had fled to France - never forget, the president of the republic was the first to run away. My brother Mateo, the one who found out the government had met with all the political parties to tell them that it was impossible to defend Madrid, was so furious he didn’t even try to defend the war minister Largo, who was a socialist just as he was . . . But the one who took it worst was my brother-in-law Carlos, who was married to my sister Paloma, la bella Paloma , we called her, you remember her, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Raquel remembered her, an old woman with white hair who looked like she could be her grandparents’ mother. She used to live with her sister María on the outskirts of Paris, but she seemed mad and never went out. ‘But I didn’t think she was pretty.’
‘She was . . . She was very pretty, the prettiest woman I’ve ever known.’
‘Prettier than Grandma?’ his granddaughter asked, puzzled, because until that day Anita Salgado Pérez had held the title of the most beautiful woman in the
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