Free Autumn in Catalonia by Jane MacKenzie Page A

‘Here, here he is. He says he’s your nephew, Grandma. He’s come from France to see you, via Sant Galdric and my mother’s house. Toni brought him, and I met them outside.’
    Maria stopped short, working out Carla’s words.
    ‘My nephew?’ she repeated.
    Carla nodded. ‘He says he’s Uncle Luis’s son.’
    The old lady looked long, very long, at the visitor, and recognition and astonishment gradually registered in her eyes.
    ‘You are really Luis’s son?’ Maria asked finally, almost shyly.
    ‘Yes, Senyora .’
    There was another pause, and then a smile spread across her face, an infinitely tender smile, and tears sprang to her eyes as she surged suddenly across the room and took his hands in hers. She held him so, and scanned him, still a little shy, as she repeated again and again, incredulously, ‘Luis’s son, Luis’s son. Oh my God, Luis’s son!’
    The young man had tears in his eyes as well. Neither of them moved, and Carla watched from her chair, feeling as though she was witnessing something intimate which she shouldn’t be sharing. The two seemed to be on a different plane from her, and she felt like an intruder. Grandma, dear, sweet Avia , had never stopped thinking about Luis, heradored older brother, and now his son had walked into her home. Carla hoped and hoped again, for Grandma’s sake, that he was genuine.
    He certainly looked uncannily like the Garriga men she knew from photos, unmistakeable in his broad cheekbones, if nothing else. They all had these prominent cheekbones, the Garrigas, and they were striking, good-looking men, planed and olive-skinned and wide-shouldered, with aquiline noses and eyes that dominated the company. They had a potent appeal and by all accounts women loved them. Uncle Victor was a very mild version of this, but the pictures of Uncle Luis, and of his (and Victor and Maria’s) father, gave an unmistakeable impression, even in faded black and white, of the Garriga charm.
    This young man was the same, although his face was broader, and his frame was a little stockier. And he looked nice, although she couldn’t help reserving judgement. We’ll wait, she thought, and then caught Grandma’s eyes and thought again. Carla might wait judgement, but Maria had found a nephew, and in a life which had seen too much loss and sorrow, his place was ready prepared.
    ‘What is your name?’ Grandma asked.
    ‘Martin,’ was all he replied.
    ‘ Martí !’ Grandma used the Catalan form of the name.
    There were endless questions over lunch. They ate together at the little table, and the whole while Maria sat next to Martin, often touching him, and while she served up their meal of black rice she kept him close, in the tiny space of the kitchen, getting him to pass her the utensils, the dishcloth, the plates – anything to make contact, and to make him hers.
    There was so much she wanted to know. Where had Martin come from? How had he got here? What had made him come here? And, more urgently, was Luis still alive?
    He shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry. Luis died in 1944.’
    Carla watched Grandma, and thought she had gone far away, back to an earlier life. Some moments passed before she spoke again. She shook her head as if to shake off wraiths from the past, and asked him simply, ‘Will you just tell me? How did he die? It was in that same area of France that they were living in, in North Catalonia?’
    Martin nodded. ‘During your Civil War he wrote for the French newspapers, and helped Spanish refugees. Then in 1940, when the Germans invaded France, he started working for the Resistance, and then in 1944 the Germans found his camp and he was killed.’
    Maria made the sign of the cross. ‘And you still live in this village where he settled?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes, I’ve lived there all my life.’
    ‘So all this time Luis’s family has been living just across the border – so close to here!’ Maria’s voice was incredulous. ‘We didn’t know! We didn’t even