“You? But when?”
“She told him about what happened with our teacher and I said it wasn’t true. That’s why they squabbled. Oak-Leaf said that Quirze ought to know, that the teacher had done exactly the same to her, that he was a louse, a rat…”
Now Cry-Baby did raise her head slightly and looked out of the corner of her eye to see how I reacted. When she saw I didn’t flinch or say a word, she added in a more strained, hesitant voice: “Oak-Leaf…wanted to…do it with Quirze…”
I looked at her in shock, as if I’d not really understood what I’d just heard: “Both of us, she and I…with him.”
I stopped for a second and she turned round to spell it out: “As you weren’t around…”
I walked back to her again. She went on: “But I burst into tears and ran to Can Tupí. Quirze squabbled with her. I saw them rolling on the ground, they were scrapping like a cat and dog, in a rage, insulting and swearing at each other.”
And then: “Quirze caught up with me before I got home and he made me promise not to tell anyone, that everything Oak-Leaf had said was a pack of stupid lies. She’s evil, more evil than Old Nick, he said, everybody knows she’s the devil’s own, and I should stop being her friend forever.”
Now eight or ten paces in front, Quirze suddenly stopped and without turning round put his hand up to signal to us to stop as well. We stood there for some time, silent and stock-still in the middle of the path, near the farmhouse, looking towards the house to try and see why he’d given us that alarm signal. It was early evening and a bright sun was still lighting up the landscape, a gentle, delicate, silken light that melted the colours of the woods and slowly faded. The sun fell on to the blue mountains of the Pyrenees in the far distance, as if it had cast off that light that was so tranquil, thin and fragile, like a covering of snow that would only melt with the morning sun. Despite that brightness, an oil or carbide light was hanging in the gallery, like the point of the tiniest needle, as if it had been flickering all night. We couldn’t see the entrance because the hazel trees near the pond and the hayrick blocked our view. Quirze beckoned us to walk to where he was standing.
“Can you see anything odd?” he whispered when we were level with him.
“The lights…” I replied.
“Why have they lit them so early?” asked Cry-Baby, perplexed.
“The electricity’s not been working for days, perhaps the power went again,” I added.
“Can you hear anything?” continued Quirze.
We stretched our necks and listened hard, but I could only hear the familiar quiet sound of the livestock in their pen, a kind of skyscape of dull humming, like a layer of dust thrown up by sheep, the odd tinkle of a bell, the bleating of sheep, clucking of hens and the odd distant bark, the rest was a protective bubble of silence enveloping the farmhouse. Cry-Baby didn’t seem to have heard anything unusual either.
We both shook our heads at Quirze.
“I can sense something… The dogs are very on edge, as if they didn’t dare whimper.”
We listened hard again, but with the same result.
“It’s the usual,” I said. “They bark now and then because they’re hungry.”
“Let’s go on,” ordered Quirze, striding towards the house, “but I smell something isn’t right. I can’t see any of the hands, it’s deserted. Somebody should be on the threshing-floor at this time of day, or on the hayrick, getting the mangers ready for the night.”
As we approached the farmhouse we heard the same noise of animals we’d heard before, but louder. Perhaps the animals had a reason to be anxious, though they didn’t seem scared or frightened.
As we walked under the elder tree we heard a ruckus inside the house. Quirze burst into a run and we followed, on tenterhooks.
32
Two civil guards were sitting on the stone step in the front entrance smoking and looking jaded.
The moment they saw us, they jumped to their feet and grabbed their guns from the nearby wall.
We stopped in our tracks opposite them, shocked and speechless.
“Sois de la casa?” one of them asked, whom Quirze must have recognized, as he glanced at his colleague. He spoke in a very clipped Spanish.
“Esperad un momento,” replied the latter as he walked inside without returning the glance.
“What’s up?” asked Quirze in a tone I thought was wonderfully firm, not showing a hint of fear.
“Un registro reglamentario,” said the guard quite impassively, as if he were behind the counter in an office.
Quirze took a step forward as if to go in but the guard barred his way, saying: “Espera.”
The second guard came back with Aunt Ció in his wake. Her face was red and she seemed angry. She was lifting the corner of her apron, as if she’d just been cleaning something.
“Go and have a bite to eat in the kitchen,” she told the three of us, her voice trembling, “I’ll bring you something right away, but best not go upstairs until…these people have finished…what they have to do.”
The guard accompanying her gestured as if authorizing us to go in and the three of us silently followed Aunt Ció.
We saw the large baskets in the entrance were open and empty by a number of boxes that had been strewn all around. We could now hear the muffled mooing and bleating of the animals.
The kitchen cupboards had been thrown open and a heap of firewood scattered over the floor, the cloth curtains under the sink had been drawn back and dishes, pots, pans and buckets tipped all over.
“They’ve turned everything upside down,” said Aunt Ció as she washed some glasses and looked for a milk jug. “They’ve not left anything in place, they messed up the lot… I don’t know what the hell these people think they’re going to find.”
We stood straight-backed by the side of the table. Staring at the basket of bundles of wool and knitting needles abandoned on the floor, next to the empty pew, Quirze asked: “What about Grandmother? Where’s she?”
“She went to lie down,” answered Ció, placing the glasses and milk jug on the table. “So she could rest and not have to speak to anyone. Sit down and have a bite to eat. They’ll soon be finished, now they’ve turned everywhere topsy-turvy.”
While she sliced bread and took cold sausage out of the drawer and put it in the centre of the table, she added: “All this malarkey can’t possibly go on much longer.”
“What are they looking for?” asked Quirze.
“They’re looking for what isn’t here,” she exploded. “How the fuck do I know what they’re looking for! They must think our attics are full of flour we’re going to sell on the black market or tobacco smuggled from South America, the stuff people often bring down from Andorra… You can be sure someone had it in for us and informed on us.”
“Are the hands upstairs as well? And my father? And Bernat?” persisted Quirze while his mother walked to the kitchen door to catch the noise coming from the sitting room and the gallery.
“Your father and Bernat are with them, keeping an eye on what they’re doing,” whispered Aunt Ció from the doorway. “The hands must be cleaning out the stables, that’s what your Father told them to do as soon as this palaver started.”
The noise upstairs got louder, as if they were dragging sideboards or boxes around. Aunt Ció turned and told us: “Don’t you budge from here. Wait for me and keep quiet.”
She left the kitchen.
Cry-Baby and I started to pick unenthusiastically at our snack. Quirze waited for a moment and then went over to the door, as his mother had just done. He stood there for a few minutes, silent, head bowed, trying to make out the movements and noises, and finally he decided to leave, without saying a word, or even giving us a glance, as if we didn’t exist.