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  “Bittori, Bittori.”

  That voice was too close to go on pretending she didn’t hear it.

  “Did you hear? They say they’re giving up, that they’re not going to attack anymore.”

  Bittori could only remember the days when this very neighbor avoided running into her on the stairs or waited at the corner, getting soaked in the rain, standing there with her shopping bag between her feet, so the two of them wouldn’t meet at the door.

  She lied: “That’s right. I heard that a while ago.”

  “What good news, no? We’re finally going to have peace. It sure is time.”

  “Well, let’s see, let’s see.”

  “I’m happy especially for people like you who’ve had such a rough time. I hope all this is over once and for all and that they leave you in peace.”

  “You hope what’s all over?”

  “That they stop making people suffer and that they defend themselves without killing.”

  And since Bittori, silent, showed she had no intention of continuing, the neighbor said goodbye as if suddenly in a hurry.

  “I’m off. I promised my son red mullet for dinner. He loves them. If you’re going home, we can walk together.”

  “No, I’m meeting someone right over here.”

  So she wouldn’t have to see her neighbor, she crossed the street and strolled around awhile in no particular direction. Because, of course, that jerk, while she’s cleaning the mullet for her son, who’s always seemed dumb to me, aside from being an idiot, if she hears me come home a little after she gets there, will think: how about that, Bittori didn’t want to be with me! What? You’re slipping into rage, and I’ve told you time and again. Okay, leave me in peace.

  Later, on her way home, she rested her hand on the rough trunk of a tree and said to herself: thank you for your humanity. She rested it later on the wall of a building and repeated the phrase. And she did the same thing, without stopping, at a stationery store, a public bench, a traffic light, and other objects she found along the way.

  The entryway was dark. She was tempted to use the elevator. Careful. The noise could give me away. She decided to take off her shoes and walk up the three flights. She still had time to whisper a final word of thanks: banister, thank you for your humanity. She inserted the key in the lock as stealthily as she could. What does Nerea see in this doormat that makes it so bad? I just don’t understand that girl anymore, and think maybe I never understood her.

  A short while later, the telephone rang. Ikatza was napping on the sofa, a ball of black fur. Without changing position, eyes half open, she watched her mistress step toward the phone. Bittori let it stop ringing, before redialing the number that had disappeared from the screen.

  Xabier, excited, Ama, ama. Turn on the television.

  “I already heard all about it. Who? The upstairs neighbor.”

  “Oh, I thought maybe you hadn’t heard.”

  And he sent her a kiss, and she did the same, and they spoke no more, and said goodbye. She told herself: I’m not turning on the TV. But soon enough her curiosity got the better of her. On the screen, she saw the three hooded men wearing berets, seated at a table, Ku Klux Klan aesthetic, a white tablecloth, patriotic banners, a microphone, and she thought: the mother of the one who spoke, would she recognize his voice? Repulsed, she turned off the television.

  “Tomorrow I’ll come up to tell you. I don’t think you’ll be happy, but, well, it’s the news of the day, and you’ve got a right to hear it.”

  With the lights out, she tried to force herself to cry. Nothing. They were dry. And Nerea hadn’t called. She hadn’t even bothered to tell her if they’d reached London. Of course she was probably very busy trying to save her marriage.

  3

  WITH TXATO IN POLLOE

  It’s been a few years since Bittori last walked up to Polloe. She could still do it, but she gets tired. And it isn’t that getting tired matters to her, but why bother, come on, why bother? Besides, depending on the day, she gets stitches in her stomach. Then she takes the number 9, which leaves her a few steps from the entrance to the cemetery. When the visit is over she walks down to the city. Walking downhill is a different thing.

  She got out behind a lady, the two of them the only passengers. Friday, calm, fine weather. And she read the inscription on the arch over the entrance: SOON IT WILL BE SAID OF YOU WHAT IS NOW SAID OF US: THEY DIED!! I’m not impressed by these funereal phrases. Sidereal dust (that one she’d heard on TV) is what we are, the same stuff you breathe when you grow mallows. And even though she, too, detested the repugnant inscription, she was unable to enter the cemetery without stopping to read it.

  Girl, you could have left that coat at home. It was too much. She’d put it on only so she could wear black. She was in mourning for the first year; then her children insisted she lead a normal life. A normal life? Those naive kids had no idea what they were talking about. Wanting to be left in peace, she followed their advice. Which doesn’t take away from the fact that it seems to her a lack of respect to walk among the dead wearing bright colors. Anyway, she opened the closet early in the morning, looking for something black that would cover her other clothes, which were of various shades of blue, saw the coat, and put it on, knowing she’d be hot.

  Txato shares a grave with his maternal grandparents and an aunt. The grave, on the side of a road that rises gently, is one in a row of other, similar graves. On the headstone, the first and last names of the deceased, his date of birth, and the day he was killed. But not “Txato,” his nickname.

  During the days before the burial, some family members from Azpeitia advised Bittori not to include on the headstone any allusions, emblems, or signs that would identify Txato as a victim of ETA. That way she’d avoid problems.

  She protested: “They already killed him once. I don’t think they’ll kill him again.”

  And it isn’t that Bittori had wanted an explanation of how her husband died inscribed on the stone. But all anyone had to do was try to dissuade her from doing something and she would insist on going ahead with it.

  Xabier said the relatives were right. And all that was engraved on the stone was the name and the dates. Nerea, over the telephone from Zaragoza, had the nerve to suggest they falsify the date of death. Shock: why?

  “I thought it would be better to have the day before or the day after the attack on the stone.”

  Xabier shrugged. Bittori simply refused.

  A few years later, when they painted graffiti all over Gregorio Ordóñez’s stone—he rests about three hundred feet from Txato—Nerea, so out of line, brought up that old matter, which all of them had forgotten. Looking at the newspaper photo, she said to her mother: “See how it was better to have aita a little protected. Look what we didn’t have to go through.”

  Then Bittori slammed her fork down on the table and said she was leaving.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

  She walked out of her daughter’s apartment frowning, striding angrily, and Quique, as he lit a cigarette, rolled his eyes.

  The row of graves stretches out one after another at the side of the road. The good thing for Bittori is that since the grave site is a few inches higher than the ground, she can sit down without difficulty on the stone. Unless it rains. Since the stone is usually cold (and covered with lichen and the inevitable filth of the years), she always carries in her bag a square of plastic cut from a shopping bag along with a kerchief, which she uses as a cushion. She sits down on it and tells Txato what she has to tell him. If there are people nearby, she speaks to him with her thoughts. Usually, there is no one around.

  “Our daughter is in London by now. At least I suppose she is, because she hasn’t bothered to call me. Did she call you? Me she didn’t. Since there was nothing on TV about a plane crash, I figure the two
of them have reached London and are fighting it out to see if they save the marriage.”

  The first year, Bittori put four flowerpots on the stone. She took regular care of it. It looked pretty. Then she went a while without going up to the cemetery. The plants died. The next batch lasted until the first frost. She bought a large flowerpot. Xabier brought it up on a hand truck. The two of them planted a box tree in it. One morning, they found it tipped over, the pot broken, part of the dirt spilled onto the stone. From then on, no decorations on Txato’s grave.

  “I’m talking the way I want to talk, and no one will stop me, especially you. And if I make jokes? I’m not the way I was when you were alive. I’ve become bad. Well, not bad. Cold, distant. If you come back to life, you won’t recognize me. And don’t think your darling daughter, your favorite, has nothing to do with this change in me. She drives me crazy. The same as when she was a girl. With your blessing, of course. Because you always defended her. You left me with no authority, so she never learned to respect me.”

  There was a sandy space three or four graves up, next to the asphalt road. And Bittori sat staring at a pair of sparrows that had just landed there. The little birds spread their wings and took a sand bath.

  “The other thing I wanted to tell you is that the gang has decided to stop killing. We still don’t know if the announcement is for real or if it’s only a trick to gain time and rearm. Whether they kill or not will matter little to you. And don’t think it matters much more to me. I need to know. I always have. And they aren’t going to stop me. No one will stop me. Not even the children. If they ever find out. Because I’m not going to say a word to them. You’re the only one who knows it. Don’t interrupt. The only one who knows that I’m going to return. No, I can’t go to the jail. I don’t even know which jail the criminal is in. But they do, and I’m sure they’re still in the town. And besides, I need to see what condition our house is in. You, stay still, Txato, Txatito, because Nerea is out of the country, and Xabier, as always, lives for his work. They won’t find out.”

  The sparrows disappeared.

  “I swear I’m not exaggerating. I’ve got this very great need to finally be okay with myself, to be able to sit down and say: It’s over. What’s over? Well, look, Txato, I have to figure that all out. And the answer, if there is an answer, can only be in the town, and that’s why I’m going there, today, this afternoon.”

  She stood up. She carefully folded the kerchief and the square of plastic and put them back in the bag.

  “So now I’ve told you. You’re staying right here.”

  4

  WHERE THEY LIVE

  Nine p.m. In the kitchen, the window was open and the smell of fried fish wafted out to the street. The newscast began with a story Miren had heard on the radio yesterday afternoon: the definitive cessation of the armed struggle. Not the cessation of what some people call “terrorism,” because my son is no terrorist. She turned toward her daughter: “Did you hear that? They’re going to stop again. Let’s just see how long it lasts.”

  Arantxa seems not to understand, but she gets everything. She made a slight movement with her face half turned away—or is it because her neck is twisted?—as if to express an opinion. With her you could never be sure, but Miren knew that her daughter had understood.

  Using her fork, she sliced the two pieces of breaded hake. The pieces are not very big, so she can swallow them without difficulty. That’s what the physical therapist, a very attractive girl, recommends. She’s not Basque, but still…Arantxa has to make an effort. If she doesn’t, there will be no progress. As the edge of the fork hits the plate it makes a noise, and, just when the breading split, for an instant a tiny cloud of steam rose from the white flesh of the fish. “Let’s see what excuse they come up with now not to let Joxe Mari go free.”

  She sits down at the table near her daughter, never taking her eye off her. She just couldn’t be sure. Arantxa had choked more than once. The last time, during the summer. They had to call the ambulance. The howl of the siren all over the neighborhood. My God, what a shock it was. By the time the emergency medics got there, she’d pulled a chunk of steak this big out of her throat.

  Forty-four years old. The oldest of the three. Then came Joxe Mari, in the Puerto de Santa María Penitentiary. They make us go all the way to Andalucía, the bastards. And finally, the kid. That one goes his own way. That one we never see.

  Arantxa grabbed the glass of white wine her mother poured her. She lifts it, trembling, to her mouth with the only usable hand she has. The left is a dead fist. As always, she held it tightly against her side, near her waist, unusable because of a spastic contraction. And she gulped down a good mouthful of wine, which, according to Joxian, should make us all happy, especially if we think that until a little while back, Arantxa ate through a catheter.

  A trickle of liquid ran down her chin, but it doesn’t matter. Miren quickly wiped it clean with her napkin. Such a pretty girl, so healthy, with such a future before her, the mother of two small children, and now this.

  “So, you like it?”

  Arantxa shook her head.

  “Listen here now, it’s not cheap. You’re getting spoiled.”

  The television commentaries followed one after another. Bah, politicians. An important step for peace. We demand the dissolution of the terrorist gang. A process is beginning to take place. The way to hope. The end of a nightmare. They should turn over their weapons.

  “Give up the struggle? In exchange for what? Have these people forgotten about the liberation of Euskal Herria? And what about the prisoners rotting in jail? What was begun must be finished. Do you recognize the voice that read the communiqué?”

  Arantxa slowly chewed a piece of hake. She again shook her head. She had more to say, and stretching out her good arm, she asked her mother to pass her the iPad. Miren stretched her neck to read what was on the screen: “It needs salt.”

  Joxian walked in just after eleven p.m. with a bundle of leeks. He’d spent the afternoon in the garden; his hobby now that he was retired. The garden is right next to the river. When it overflows—the last time was at the start of the year—goodbye, garden. There are worse things, says Joxian. Sooner or later, the water recedes. He dries the tools, sweeps out the shed, buys new baby rabbits, replaces the ruined vegetables. The apple tree, the fig tree, and the hazelnut tree survive the flood, and that’s all. All? Since the river carries industrial waste, the silt gives off a strong smell. He says it’s a factory smell. Miren snaps back: “It smells of poison. Someday we’re all going to die with horrible stomach cramps.”

  Another of Joxian’s daily amusements is to play an afternoon game of cards. Four friends play mus over a pitcher of wine in the Pagoeta bar. As far as the four of them drinking only one pitcher, well, that remains to be seen.

  Judging by the way he was carrying the leeks, Miren assumed he was drunk. She told him his nose was going to get as red as his dead father’s. She knows he’s been drinking when he starts scratching his right side, where his liver is. Then there’s no doubt about it. He scratches the way other men make the sign of the cross or knock on wood.

  He just doesn’t know how to say no. That’s the problem. He drinks in the bar because the other men drink, too. And if one of them were to say “Okay, let’s dive into the river,” Joxian would go right along with them like a little lamb.

  In any case, he came home with his beret all twisted, his eyes glazed, scratching his shirt right over his liver, and he got sentimental.

  In the dining room, he gave Arantxa a slow, tender kiss on the forehead, almost slobbering. He practically fell on top of her. Miren, on the other hand, pushed him off. “Get out of here, you smell like a tavern.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, don’t be so hard.”

  She stretched out her arms with her hands open to keep him at a distance. “You’ll find some fish in the kitchen. Probably c
old by now. But you can heat it up.”

  Half an hour later, Miren called him in to help her get Arantxa into bed. They picked her up out of her wheelchair, he holding up one arm, she the other. “Have you got her?”

  “What?”

  “I asked if you’ve got her. Tell me if you’ve got a good grip before we both fall over.”

  An immobilized foot makes it hard for Arantxa to walk. Sometimes she takes a few uncertain steps, using a cane or helped by another person. To be able to walk around the house, to eat on her own, to be able to speak again: those are the family’s principal hopes for the short term. As for the long term, we’ll just wait and see. The physical therapist encourages her. She’s a beauty. She speaks very little Basque, almost nothing, but that doesn’t matter.

  Father and mother together stand her up next to the bed. They’ve done it many times. They’ve had lots of practice. And besides, how much could Arantxa weigh in those days? About ninety pounds. Not more. And to think how strong she’d been in her time.

  Her father held her up while Miren pushed the wheelchair toward the wall.

  “Don’t you let her fall, now.”

  “How could I ever let my daughter fall?”

  “You’re capable of anything.”

  “You’re talking nonsense.”

  They glared at each other, he with his teeth clenched as if to keep some obscenity inside his mouth. Miren pulled back the covers and then the two of them, carefully, slowly, have you got her?, placed Arantxa on the bed.

  “You can leave now. I’m going to undress her.”

  Then Joxian bent over to kiss his daughter on the forehead. And to say good night. “See you tomorrow, polita,” as he caressed her cheek with his knuckle. And then he made for the door, scratching his side. He’d almost left the room when he turned around and said: “On the way back from the Pagoeta, I saw light in the house that belongs to those people.”