Three years after Matilde’s death, Don Federico chose as his new bride a soft-spoken young woman named Vicenta Lorca, who worked as a schoolteacher in Fuente Vaqueros. At first his family questioned the match, judging Vicenta neither rich nor particularly talented. But her quick mind and gentle ways appealed to Don Federico. The first time he approached the window of her home in Fuente Vaqueros and began to speak to her through its grille, as was the custom in village courtship, he was smitten. “Vicenta,” he exclaimed, “you talk just like a book.” From that moment on he tried to polish his own rough speech in her presence.
Nothing she had known in her brief, difficult life could have prepared Vicenta Lorca for the prosperity she would enjoy as the wife of Federico García Rodríguez. She was a Granadan by birth, and something of that city’s melancholy had settled in her eyes—or perhaps it was the strain of poverty that had quietly left its mark on her face. Her father died one month before Vicenta’s birth on July 25, 1870. She grew up an only child in her mother’s care, dependent on family charity for her existence. By the time she was thirteen, Vicenta and her mother had lived in four different homes in Granada, each belonging to some relation.
At thirteen, she was sent to a convent school for poor children. The experience horrified her. Behind cloistered walls the nuns bickered among themselves and forced the child to eat food she loathed. The sisters’ piety was more than offset by the envy and rancor with which they treated one another and their charges. Vicenta Lorca never forgot the ugliness she saw in the convent, and although she remained a devout Catholic throughout her life, she avoided any show of zealotry.
She spent five years with the nuns, then several more years in Granada training to be a schoolteacher—one of the few jobs, besides motherhood, then available to women. She worked hard at her studies and graduated with glowing marks as a licensed maestra of elementary education. Her first and only job sent her ten miles away, to the girls’ primary school in Fuente Vaqueros. The salary was meager, and the village a far cry from her cherished Granada, but Vicenta dutifully packed her belongings and moved to the countryside with her mother to begin her career. By the age of twenty-two she was installed as a professor of primary instruction in Fuente Vaqueros.
Her relative good fortune lasted little more than a year. In the fall of 1893, her mother suddenly died. Vicenta was inconsolable. Time did little to blunt her grief. Years later she could still remember the desperation of those days, and with the candor that often characterized her words, she told a niece, “After all that struggle and effort, I finally got my degree, and then what happened? My mother died.” Four years later Vicenta Lorca became the bride of Federico García Rodríguez.
The pair were married in the parish church of Fuente Vaqueros on August 27, 1897, two days before Don Federico’s thirty-eighth birthday and one month after Vicenta’s twenty-seventh. Nine months and nine days later, their first child, Federico, was born, on Sunday, June 5, 1898, in the plain white stucco house on Calle Trinidad where his father had lived, childless, for the past two decades. The infant arrived at midnight, a fitting hour for a boy who would grow up loving the night. At six days old he was carried to the church around the corner from his house and baptized Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús. More simply, he was known as Federico García Lorca.
Overseas, the once-resplendent Spanish empire was in its death throes. One month before Lorca’s birth, the United States declared war on Spain. The brief, catastrophic engagement that followed was to be Spain’s last imperial war in the Americas. The result of a complex set of circumstances—the Cuban independence movement; persistent economic and trade difficulties involving Cuba, the United States, and Spain; the United States government’s commitment to Manifest Destiny; and the ineptitude of an aging and authoritarian Spanish regime—the Spanish-American War lasted barely four months and shattered Spain’s centuries-old status as a world power. Within a week of the declaration of war, Admiral George Dewey had destroyed Spain’s Pacific squadron in a single hour’s battle off the Philippine coast. In early July 1898, Spain’s Caribbean fleet was defeated by the United States Navy in the waters off Santiago, Cuba, in what many consider one of the worst naval catastrophes of modern times. In a single gruesome day of battle, 2,129 Spaniards died; just one American perished. The only Spanish ship fast enough to slip away ran out of coal. Its lifeline to the Iberian peninsula cut, Cuba yielded at once to the American army. Two weeks later, against token resistance, the United States invaded Puerto Rico. In August 1898, Spain signed a peace protocol ending the war.
Few Spaniards could forgive their government its folly. At home, citizens dubbed the year 1898 “the Disaster.” By 1899 the Spanish empire had evaporated, its last remaining colonies—Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Philippines—jettisoned with the stroke of a pen. The Spanish mainland was visited by the depressed, fever-ridden remnants of its military, whose pitiable specter accelerated an already bitter process of national soul-searching. Only a handful of Spaniards gained anything from the losses of 1898. Among them was Federico’s father, whose sugar-beet business prospered.
When Lorca was two, his mother gave birth to a second child, Luis. Twenty months later, the boy died of pneumonia and was buried in a tiny casket in the town cemetery. Lorca never forgot the ghostly child. At nineteen he signed a poem “Federico Luis,” and at twenty-four he recalled an infant lost in limbo, “my little brother Luis / in the meadow / with the tiny babies.” At thirty-one he was still imagining the dead boy, this time as his son.
At first, the theatrics of death enthralled him—the white casket festooned in flowers and crepe, the candles and cross. But by adolescence his delight had turned to horror, and he could not face a burial procession without closing his eyes. Haunted by the thought of the cold body decomposing inside its chaste coffin, he repeatedly asked himself, and others, what happened to people after they died. What became of the soul after the body had dissolved into a putrid mass of fluids? Was there, as the Church promised, a “great beyond,” or merely interminable darkness, a void? In his struggle to reconcile himself to the fragility of human existence, his heightened imagination probed the very essence of death. He envisioned the process of decay: the stains, the pus, the “streams of black blood” that spilled from the nose, the glassy eyes with their unforgettable “look of terror.” His father, similarly perturbed by the death of his second son, took a more pragmatic approach to matters and began compulsively carrying medications with him whenever he and his family went on an excursion.
Lorca learned early on that life and death were two halves of an indecipherable whole. Barely three months after Luis’s death, Vicenta Lorca gave birth to a third son, Francisco Enrique, nicknamed Paco. The following year a daughter, María de la Concepción, or Concha, was born. The girl, like Federico, resembled their father. Paco, with spare, lean features and an air of fragility, took after their mother.
By the summer of Concha’s birth, in 1903, the family had moved into a new home in Fuente Vaqueros, close to the village church. To Federico, the sound of the church bells seemed to rise straight from “the heart of the earth.” By seven o’clock, he was usually up and pulling on his acolyte’s robes so that he could get to church and dress the altar in time for Mass. He thrilled to the charged world of martyrs and orations. Sometimes, as he sat beside his mother at High Mass in the cold damp of a winter morning and fixed his eyes on the altar, he felt his soul go “into ecstasy” at the sound of the organ’s first chords.