- Olivia Brooks
- 2 days ago
- 27 min read
Who Holds the Blade
The first time Eneko fell in love, he did so from afar and with a dangerous alacrity. The year was 1850. The boy was not quite fifteen years old.
Eneko lived in a Basque village on the Spanish coast not far from Bilbao. While he’d heard of the city, it was not a place he had ever visited or even hoped to visit. His was a poor fishing family and their plans only ever considered the cycles of the sea. He was sickly for much of his childhood and into his adolescence and so, it seemed from his bed a million leagues from Bilbao and any semblance of good health, he would be sickly forever.
Because of his delicate constitution, Eneko did not accompany his father and older brothers on the boat. He helped at home whenever he was well enough: building the hearth, fetching water, weeding the garden. When he was sick, Eneko lay in bed and sweated and coughed. He read his mother’s old books and dreamed of a world where he was strong and healthy, where he returned home from the sea with his father and brothers, and sat around the kitchen table comparing callouses.
The winter before Eneko turned fifteen had been particularly rough. Father Patxi was called not once but twice to deliver last rites. Eneko, however, pulled through – this surprised everyone, including himself. The days grew longer and his fever broke. By Easter, Eneko was able to leave his bed on wobbly legs. He could use the outhouse on his own. He could taste flavors in food. He had been reborn a full five kilos lighter.
Eneko woke to the April sea breeze stirring the window curtains. From the kitchen came smells of nettle tea and fried ham, the sounds of his father and mother’s footsteps, their soft, waking steps, their daily dance. After breakfast, Eneko rested his elbows on the table and stuck his face between his hands as his father and brothers gathered their baskets and nets. He followed them to the door, where his father patted Eneko’s back before turning away. His mother watched him as he leaned against the door frame, watching the men walk down the hill, into the fog, toward the village port.
“Eneko?”
“Yes, ma?”
“You need to get out of the house. Go check on the widow Otxoa up the hill.”
#
The widow Otxoa lived alone. This was unusual. Eneko’s mother, Katixa, told him the widow’s husband and four sons had died in two different wars. This was not so unusual. A cousin visited her every Christmas and tried to convince the widow to come live with family in Bilbao. Still the old woman lived in that house and would probably die there, all by her lonesome. Well, she wasn’t dead yet and could probably use some help around the place.
Eneko took the route along the ocean ridge. The sun had burned off the fog, warming the coast and Eneko’s face. The narrow path, worn down over the centuries by pilgrims heading to or from Santiago de Compostela, was a route now rarely used. He was surprised to catch two shirtless men in the cove below.
One man stood at the top of an island crag. He wore long pants rolled up to the knees. There was a thick rope tied around his waist. This rope led to a second man, half-submerged in the water and clinging to the rock. He appeared to be chiseling at something.
Eneko wanted a closer look.
He stepped off the path towards the cove. The ground here was sloped unevenly. Eneko moved with extreme care, gripping the pine trees which guarded the coastline. His pulse quickened and his breathing became ragged. His arms were thick with sweat. He had not exerted his body so in a very long time. He concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths through his nose. The wind came off the water but he felt no chill, only an exquisite joy.
Eneko could now see the man was in fact collecting something from the rock face— though what, exactly, Eneko did not know. The man’s back was wide and strong and dark from the sun. Eneko followed his muscled curves with supreme fascination. His partner atop the crag called out in warning: a large wave was coming. The man grasped the rockface with both hands. The wave rolled over him, splashing foam against skin and stone as it continued to the shore. He shook his wet hair and began scraping again. Eneko wondered if the wave hurt. He wondered if the strap of the canvas bag chafed the man’s neck. He wondered what the salt felt like, soaking into his skin.
Eneko lifted his own sweaty forearm to his mouth and licked.
The man leaned back from the rock and tugged on the rope. His partner stepped forward to help but the man climbed up easily. A smooth and smiling success. He stretched and laughed at something his partner said. He jiggled his canvas bag, which looked heavy. Full. He stretched again and it was then, as the man surveyed the cove, that he caught sight of Eneko.
He waved.
Eneko’s heart pounded relentlessly against the confines of his chest. He raised one hand: hello, stranger. The man watched him for a moment. Then he turned away.
#
The widow Oxtoa’s home stood on a hill overlooking the village to the south and the sea to the west. Its stone walls were bleached by sun and salt. She was outside, pumping water from the well.
“Do you need any help around here, ma’am?”
The widow straightened her back. It cracked a few times.
“My mother sent me,” Eneko explained.
“I don’t need help. Tell Katixa I said thank you anyway.” She turned her attention back to the pump.
Eneko bounced on the balls of his feet. She looked at him sideways and watched him fidget.
“Ma’am?”
She sighed as if to say: there it is. “Yes?”
“Do you know what those men at the cove are doing?”
“What?” This, sharply.
“I mean, what they’re fishing for?”
“Oh. Well, I couldn’t say. There’s that new fellow from Galicia. He’s been around lately looking for work, too.”
“Galicia?”
The widow Otxoa narrowed her eyes. “You best stay away from that cove. Given how your health is still weak,” she said. She took her bucket inside and closed the door.
#
“Where’s Galicia?” Eneko asked at dinner.
His mother was feeding the baby. She put down the spoon. “What’s this? You start to feel better, and now you want to go to Galicia?”
“No, Ma. I’m just curious.”
“Galicia is to the west,” said Estebe, scratching at his beard. He was twenty years old and fancied himself a favorite of the ladies, most of all their mother. “Pío’s uncle spent time there before sailing to Canada.”
“Which uncle?” asked Iban. He was seventeen and working on his beard, in imitation of Estebe.
“Where’s Canada?” asked Haizea. At twelve, she was the next youngest after Eneko. Katixa was always after Haizea for not minding her birth order or gender.
“I think it was his Uncle Pedro,” said Estebe. “The one with the lazy eye.”
“But – Galicia?” Eneko tried very hard to keep from whining.
“Santiago de Compostela is in Galicia, of course. So is Covadonga,” said Katixa. “A thousand years ago, their Christian king fought off the Moors. That was the beginning of the Reconquista.” She wiped the baby’s mouth.
Joseba, their father, crossed himself. He had no beard and spoke little.
“Lots of poor fishermen in Galicia,” said Estebe. “The land is shit for farming.”
Haizea giggled.
“Language,” warned Katixa.
“Pío said his uncle said they speak another language there. I mean, they speak Spanish, but also a whole other language, too.”
Eneko said, “So Galicians, they’re just like us.”
“Why do you care so much about Galicia?” asked Iban. “Are you planning on sailing to Canada?”
“Eneko’s not going anywhere,” said their mother. She stood, the baby on her hips. She began clearing dinner plates with her free hand.
Haizea jumped up. “Maybe one day I’ll go to Canada!”
“God help us,” muttered Katixa. The baby gurgled and laughed and reached for her big sister. Haizea took the child and left the table singing, “Oh Canada, a land full of fish and wonders, where lions and polar bears are best friends . . .”
Eneko stayed at the table after everyone left. He called to his mother near the hearth.
“Hey, Ma?”
“Yes, my sweet?”
“Is there any cheese in the cupboard?”
His mother brought him a plate heavy with a hunk of Idiazábal and a slice of bread. She also brought the honey jar, sweet gold in ceramic, a special treat.
“I’m thankful for your appetite,” she said by way of explanation.
The sheep’s milk cheese was his favorite. The first bite tasted of smoke. Then came flavors of butter and burnt caramel, all tucked between crusty bread and thick honey. Eneko sucked sticky honey from his fingers. He wondered what the Galician was eating for dinner. He wondered if afterwards, the man would go out to the tavern and flirt with women. Or if after he ate, he would strip down to his underwear and lie his long, dark and deeply muscled body on white sheets and let his hands roam in easy pleasure. Then Eneko remembered where he was and fought the onslaught of rushing blood. He pushed his empty plate away.
“I’m ready for bed,” he said. “Thanks, Ma.”
Katixa’s gaze was beyond him. She spoke as if she had not heard him. “Asturias. Covadonga is in Asturias, not Galicia. How could I forget? It’s been so long . . .”
“Since what?”
His mother just shook her head and smiled. She was somewhere else. He wondered how long she’d been there.
#
Eneko continued visiting the widow Otxoa. He offered to collect walnuts from her trees, clean her hearth, scrub her laundry. Any walk to the widow’s house was an opportunity to catch sight of the Galician working his mysteries along the coast. Once Eneko caught the man standing alone at the edge of the shore, bent over at the waist, stretching his arms and legs – what exercise he was readying for, though, Eneko could not guess. Another time Eneko saw him scaling the shallow cliffs with Alesander from the village, who was supposedly something of a star athlete in his youth but had since taken to living at the tavern full time.
The widow seemed put out by Eneko, but only mildly. Initially she sent him away without work. Then she began letting him do little chores around the place while she told him how much she liked to be alone.
“I do just fine by myself,” she told Eneko. He was in the oak tree in her front yard, trimming a branch that had been growing dangerously close to the roof. “How is it you think I’m so healthy and strong?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” He pushed aside the leaves in order to look down and address her properly. She stood with her hands on her hips but didn’t say anything else. He resumed sawing.
Then the widow said, rather softly, “You remind me of my youngest son.”
The branch fell to the ground. They both stared at it. The branch didn’t say a thing.
#
On his way back from the market on an egg-buying errand for the widow, Eneko stopped at the old church at the bottom of the hill. The church had burned down 100 years ago. It was originally made of wood, which was highly unusual for the region—the surprise being not so much that it burned but rather that it had lasted so long. The new church was stone and terra cotta and stood in the center of town, across from the pelota court and tavern, like a proper place of worship should. The shell of the old church was overgrown with weeds and blackberry bushes and wasn’t used for much nowadays except as a landmark.
The cemetery yawned under the shadow of broken walls. It was a long, rectangular plot of land speckled with crosses and circles of hilarri. Eneko had nearly died, oh so recently. He shivered when he thought of those bodies underground. He had escaped that fate, for now at least. Death waited patiently yet, perhaps perched on a tombstone, elbows on knees, sickle on the ground, watching Eneko carry a dozen eggs for a grouchy old lady.
“You’re the one who’s been stalking me,” a voice growled. It was the Galician. Eneko almost dropped his basket.
“Relax,” said the man. “I’m kidding, Eneko.”
The Galician was shorter than Eneko had thought. His shoulders, though, were as broad and his skin as richly bronzed as they looked from far away. The corners of his eyes were crinkled but the rest of his face was smooth. He might have been twenty-four, twenty-five years old. He was smiling. His teeth were white and strong.
“How do you know my name?”
“I’ve asked around. Said, ‘Hey, who’s that skinny kid who lives up on the hill? Is he an angel or a ghost?’ And they said, ‘Oh, the kid with the beautiful face? That’s Eneko. He’s no ghost but has a guardian angel who brought him back from the grave. Twice.’ And I thought, ‘I could use a guardian angel like that.’ I’m Martín, by the way.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why could you use a guardian angel?”
“Well. I have a job that can be pretty dangerous,” Martín said. He poked at Eneko’s chest. “But you know all about that already.”
“I don’t, really,” said Eneko. His cheeks warmed. “I’m curious.”
“Fair enough. There aren't any percebes hunters around here.”
“Percebes?”
“Little animals with shells. They grow on rocks smacked around by the sea.” He opened his canvas bag and pulled out a strange, knuckle-sized creature: long, skinny and gray, with what looked like a turtle claw for its head. “Percebes are more common where I come from, but they grow here in Basque country, too. They’re awfully difficult to harvest so people pay top dollar for them.”
Eneko reached out. Martín let him touch the barnacle resting in the palm of his hand. “Why don’t you come out with me to the cove tomorrow?” Martín asked, in such a tone as if he already knew the answer.
#
The cove was smaller than most. It was hidden from the sea, as the coastal cliffs from the east stretched nearly to meet those of the west. Eneko described this picture to Martín: Like two hands stretching to touch but their fingertips not quite reaching. The waters slipping through and carving out a secret little nook of the Kantauri.
“The what?”
“The Kantauri – the, um, Cantabrian Sea.”
“You’re very poetic, flaco.”
The shore itself was sand: gray and coarse, but actual sand, and plenty of it. It was an altogether strange and secluded place. Eneko wondered what it looked like at high tide.
Martín took off his shirt and hung it on a tree branch. Thin scars crisscrossed his shoulders and upper arms. A dark patch of hair trailed down his spine, where it disappeared below his pants. Eneko sucked in his breath sharply.
“You ready?” Martín looped the rope around his shoulder.
“Not really.”
Martín laughed. “I wasn’t ready my first time, either. Come on.”
They waded into the water. There were three main clusters of rocks in the cove; the farthest was a dozen meters out, close to where the cove opened to the sea. Martín guided Eneko to the crag nearest to the shore. They only had to swim a few strokes to reach it.
The black rock was slippery and uneven under Eneko’s feet. Martín braced Eneko’s shoulder with one hand while tying the rope around his waist. Eneko felt the top of his head tingle. He felt an erection building and thought, perhaps, God might strike him down then and there to save him the trouble of dying from embarrassment. He breathed in deeply through his nose and focused on the sun warming his cheeks and not the heat of Martín’s touch on his body.
“Done,” said Martín. The two were roped together at the waist. “I’m going down. It’s an easy day, okay? The tide is low and the sea is very calm. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Your job is to warn me of any giant waves. That way you don’t have to save me.” Martín looked at him sideways. “I’m trusting you.”
Eneko felt his heart expand with pride.
Martín climbed down the easterly side of the rock. This face took the biggest brunt of the waves—which, as Martín predicted, lapped in peacefully. Martín clung to the rock with casual confidence. He chiseled the small barnacles and slipped them into the canvas bag strapped across his chest. It seemed to Eneko as if Martín had been born from the sea.
“Hey, flaco.”
“Yes?”
“Watch the sea. Not me.”
Yes, yes. Eyes up. Eneko straightened his back. He looked to the sea. Each wave rolled in smoothly and splashed at Martín’s feet and calves. Eyes up. The sun on his face and the rope around his waist, taking in the methodical massage of the Kantauri. The Cantabrian. The cradle of the Atlantic which fed this hard land, which fed its hard people. The hard waves which fed the percebes which brought the stranger Martín who gave Eneko even stranger feelings, new flavors of possibility.
“Martín!”
Martín’s head swiveled sharply at the pitch of Eneko’s voice. A massive wave was coming in quickly. A moving mountain. Martín scrambled to the top of the rock and reached it just in time to thrust Eneko down, his broad torso over Eneko’s, protecting them both from the onslaught of rushing water.
The water passed. They were soaked. “You’re hurt,” said Martín.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“No, flaco. I got you with my knife.”
Eneko followed Martín’s worried gaze. He was indeed bleeding from a long slash on his right thigh. Martín ran his finger along its edge.
“Let’s get you to shore,” he said.
On the beach, Martín had Eneko lay on his back while he held Enkeo’s leg across his kneeling thighs. Martín cleaned the cut with fresh water. He ripped the sleeve from his dry shirt and wrapped it firmly around Eneko’s thigh. He rested Eneko’s leg back on the sand.
“It’s not deep,” Martín said. “It will heal quickly.”
“I’m tough.” Eneko raised himself up to a kneeling position. He felt tough because the cut didn’t hurt much now. It would hurt later.
“Ha! That’s what I hear. You refuse to die. Me too. We have that in common.”
Eneko was on both knees and Martín rested on his haunches. Their faces were no more than a breath apart. They stayed in that position for a few loaded moments. A wave pulsed in and pulled out, and then another, again. Eneko watched Martín’s eyes flicker from Eneko’s own to his nose and mouth and up again. Martín was measuring something in his mind and Eneko was waiting, for what he did not know exactly, until Martín leaned in and put his lips on his, opening Eneko’s mouth with his tongue, hot and wet. Eneko felt surprise then shame then eager desire in quick succession. Martín pushed him onto the sand, one arm wrapped around Eneko’s back and the other pressing against his chest. It was like the bandage: firm but not forceful. The surf came in and the water was cool on Eneko’s legs, back, hair. Martín licked salt off his ears and neck and back to his mouth again where Eneko was happy to receive him, this new sensation, this new connection not only lips to lips, but hand to chest and legs to legs, body to body. It was all slow friction and beautiful, building pressure. Martín murmured something like “down” but also could have been “Basque,” the hot sounds spoken with quiet urgency against Eneko’s cheek. All at once Eneko felt himself spasm in stunning waves of release, release of an energy he did not know his body was capable of producing, and shortly after Martín too thrusted and tensed and collapsed, grunting, at his side.
The sea continued its gentle roll, pulsing onto the sand and against their backs.
“God is kissing us,” said Martín.
He inspected his crude bandage on Eneko’s leg, which had somehow held up. Miracles of all sorts abounded that afternoon.
Take, for example: the miracle of Martín in full glory as he stood and stripped completely and stood over Eneko, smiling. He looked more god than man, perhaps a descendent of some ancient deity abandoned when the Romans were poking around these parts, a history Eneko knew of only vaguely thanks to his mother and her dusty old textbooks.
#
Eneko returned home in late afternoon. He carried a sack containing two dozen percebes. His face and shoulders were sunburned and he stood, utterly exhausted, as Katixa tsk’d over him. He was still recovering, she reminded him, and if he wanted to continue on this journey to good health, he’d best respect his mother and Jesus. In that order.
“Yes, Ma,” Eneko said.
Katixa took the sack. “How do I cook these?”
“Martín said boil them for two minutes, nothing more.”
Dinner was anchovies stewed in olive oil with garlic and peppers, and for the first time, percebes.
“These are delicious,” said Estebe, sucking the tender flesh from its pliable shell. “Ugly little things though. Who’d have thought?”
“They taste like the sea smells,” said Joseba quietly.
“Eneko the fisherman! Wanna come out on the boat with us soon?” asked Iban.
“Iban! How could you suggest such a thing? Your brother, so recently off his deathbed, by the grace of God . . .” Katixa gave the sign of the cross.
“I said soon,” Iban muttered, “not tomorrow.”
“Can I go on the boat with dad and them?” asked Haizea.
“You’re all trying to give me a heart attack,” said their mother.
Haizea turned to Eneko. “Your Galician friend must be very clever. Are you going again tomorrow? Can I come?”
Eneko shook his head.
“Is it because Martín is like all men and doesn’t want a girl tagging along?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said very evenly.
#
Martín taught Eneko how to harvest percebes and how to catch spiny lobsters in small caves along the coast. Eneko was not so good at collecting percebes. He was, however, surprisingly adept at finding lobsters in their little crevices. Every time Eneko emerged with a black, writhing lobster in his net, Martín clapped and hollered.
Eneko taught Martín how to hunt for wild mushrooms. It was another opportunity to spend time together and Eneko got to be the teacher for once. He brought along garlic and a pan, and Martín brought a ceramic jar of butter specially for the occasion: Eneko’s birthday. Martín insisted it was a momentous day, fifteen years old, hey flaco, did you know that in the New World they celebrate a girl’s fifteenth birthday as grandly as they do a wedding?
“I’m not a girl,” Eneko said, a little annoyed.
“Thank God,” said Martín.
Eneko cleaned the mushrooms while Martín made a small fire. They ate hot, buttery, garlicky mushrooms with their hands because neither of them brought spoons or bread.
Afterwards Martín rubbed his hands all over Eneko’s body and licked at the grease like an animal. And then, as always, they washed themselves off in the sea.
On the sand, Eneko leaned back on his forearms while the water lapped his outstretched legs. Martín waded out into the water and stood, thigh deep, facing the horizon.
“There are percebes out there, deep at the bottom of the crags.” He turned to face Eneko. “I’d like to dive for them, when the tide is high and the weather is right. You think you’re strong enough to spot me?”
Eneko sat up and frowned. Martín reveled in risk. Eneko did not know whether this was because Martín was truly brave or because he was desperately trying to outrun something; not hide, not exactly, but rather continually test his place in the world: yes, I am still here, as I am, and the Lord has not struck me down yet. Eneko found this both attractive and deeply frightening.
Martín continued to face Eneko, scarred hand on his hip, waiting for an answer.
“Soon,” said Eneko.
#
Martín was fascinated by Eneko’s family. He marveled at how Eneko spoke with such tender reverence about his parents and his brothers and sisters. Though Martín also came from a large household, he rarely spoke of them.
“Don’t you love your family?”
“Sure,” said Martín. “But we don’t like each other very much.”
Eneko invited Martín to have supper at his house one Sunday in late July. His mother had been pestering him about this Galician character, saying he seemed like a nice young man, so generous with his time. Eneko watched her carefully. He tried to detect a hint of distrust or distaste but found nothing of the sort. Once his mother asked, “Are you sure Martín isn't actually Martina?” and before Eneko could choke out a denial, Estebe cut in with, “Come on, Ma, you know Martín is a real guy, we see him at the tavern. If only Eneko had a girlfriend—ha!”
Sunday morning after church, Eneko helped his mother with the bacalao while his father took a walk and his brothers slept off their hangovers. The sun was warm and their chores were peaceful. Katixa drained water from the large clay bowl. The dried cod was finally done with its long soak and almost ready to be cooked. The bowl was heavy. Eneko marveled at the sinewy strength of his mother’s shoulders and forearms.
Estebe came out, stretching and yawning. He splashed his face with water and shook his wet hair like a dog.
“You’re alive,” Katixa said dryly.
“Aw, come on, Ma,” said Estebe. He leaned in to kiss her but she waved him away.
“You’re all wet.”
“Francisco came by with a bottle of patxaran last night and man, once he started talking, he just wouldn’t stop. He had some crazy stories.”
“Francisco Izaguirre? Ibai’s nephew? I don’t believe it. You’d think that guy was a walking corpse, how little he speaks.” Katixa lifted the bowl onto the stone table next to the well. “Eneko, you pull out the bones. Your eyes are better.”
“No joke, Ma,” said Estebe.
“Fine. So what did Francisco have to say?”
“Well. For one, Father Patxi has a second child, this time at some nunnery near Azpeitia.”
“No!”
“Yes.” Estebe ran his fingers through his hair and stretched. He and his mother loved to gossip and they could not indulge when Joseba was around. Eneko wasn’t interested. He focused on removing every tiny bone from the bacalao. He imagined Martín sitting at their dinner table. Charming Katixa and everybody with his bronze skin and easy smile. Winking at Eneko. Eneko getting so flustered he might choke on an overlooked fish bone.
There was a change in Estebe’s tone. Eneko’s ears picked up.
“. . . and Alesander, you know, he helps out Ibai at the tavern, well apparently he goes to Donostia where there’s this hidden street where men . . .” Estebe’s voice dropped even lower.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Ever since he was a little kid, that one, you could tell something was off. His poor mother. She once told me that she caught him wearing her skirts when he thought no one was home.”
It was now very quiet at the well. Eneko kept his eyes down.
Estebe gave his face one final splash. He walked back into the house. Katixa picked at her skirts, brushing dirt off the bottom hem. She glanced at Eneko. He could not read her expression.
His poor mother, Eneko thought.
#
The house smelled of onions and hot oil when Martín arrived, carrying a bag of cherries. Katixa shook her head and smiled and said, “You shouldn’t have!” She lifted them to her nose and inhaled deeply. For Haizea, he had something special: chocolate from the Americas, tiny square treasures wrapped in bright paper.
“Eneko told me you’re very interested in the New World,” Martín said.
Haizea squealed. Eneko marveled at how lovely his sister looked when she was happy.
Estebe led the prayer, thanking the Lord for His bounty of good health and family and may He please also watch over their guest from Galicia. Martín pressed his foot against Eneko’s. Eneko coughed a bit on “Amen.”
Dinner began with the clatter of spoons and ceramic and the soft murmurs of “thank you” as people passed the cazuela heavy with cod and pepper sauce. Once everyone had been served and started eating, the conversation picked up. Everyone vied for the Galician’s attention.
“What’s your town like?” asked Haizea. “Is it very big or very small, like ours?”
“Where’d you learn to harvest percebes?” asked Iban.
“What are the girls in Galicia like?” asked Estebe.
“My village is not much bigger than yours. It’s also on the coast and home to many fishermen. I would say the main differences are that we eat more potatoes and have more sand.”
“My uncle taught me how to harvest percebes. I started when I was very young. Close to Haizea’s age.”
“We have the most beautiful women in Galicia.”
Katixa scooped Martín another portion of fish. “Will you find yourself a wife soon?”
Martín chewed slowly. His eyebrows crunched together in consideration.
Estebe said, “We don’t have the most beautiful women here. They all have to work too hard.”
“Watch it,” growled Joseba.
“. . . but you couldn’t ask for a better wife or mother.” Estebe smiled at Katixa.
“Or cook,” added Iban. “I bet Basques eat best in all of Spain.”
“Will you find a Basque wife to cook for you?” asked Haizea. Eneko gave her the side eye. He imagined her, imagining herself wearing an apron in Martín’s kitchen full of chocolates.
“This is delicious,” Martín told Katixa. “Your pepper sauce, it’s so rich and fresh. And the cod has just the right bite.”
“Well, thank you. Eneko here is a wonderful help. He sliced the peppers and deboned each fish.”
“You know,” said Martín, licking his lips, “I had a version of bacalao a la vizcaina with tomatoes in Donostia.”
“Tomatoes.” Joseba shook his head. “Blasphemy.”
“Will you stay?” asked Haizea.
“You must miss your family very much,” said Katixa.
“But will you stay?” the girl asked again.
“Haizea, shhh,” said Eneko. He tried to be gentle about it.
“Actually,” Martín cleared his throat, “actually, I’ve been offered a position on a whaling expedition to the Arctic. It departs from Bilbao next month. So I’ll be leaving soon.”
“But we were just getting to know you!”
“Haizea, shut it!” said Eneko, not at all gently.
Katixa stood up and began clearing plates. She gestured for Haizea to follow. The girl collected empty dishes and dirty utensils in mute anger. Eneko watched her leave. Martín was staring at him and Eneko looked everywhere but in his direction. Eneko could not bear to meet his eyes.
Katixa returned to the table with a bottle of wine. Haizea followed with the cherries, rinsed and in a big red bowl, which had been a wedding gift. The girl plunked the bowl down and the gesture served as a clumsy exclamation mark.
The baby cried out. Haizea took her from her chair and whisked her away.
“I’m sorry for her bad manners,” Katixa said to Martín. He waved his hand: he too had a large family with many strong personalities, this supper made him happy, he felt at home.
“To family.” Joseba poured wine around the table. “Katixa?”
“Just a drop,” she said and her husband served her, much bigger than a drop because he of course knew better. When everyone had their wine, even Eneko who rarely drank, she raised her glass and said, “To Martín. For being such a good friend to Eneko. And for his safe journey around the world.”
Eneko drank his wine quickly. He could not taste a thing.
The baby could be heard laughing in the other room, as could Haizea as she sang the child a song in a mix of Spanish and Basque and Latin, the latter which she picked up in pieces from her mother’s old textbooks, which Katixa still kept, remnants of her youth and a future promised once upon a time. Haizea’s song was discordant and strangely beautiful. Katixa poured herself a second drink.
#
Two days later, the Galician was dead.
Estebe came home early with the news. Katixa was pulling clothes from the line when her eldest arrived, slowly and steadily walking up the hill. She gasped. No one comes home early unless there’s been death or a miracle.
Eneko watched it all from the doorway: their mother rushing to meet him, Estebe imparting something awful, Katixa putting her hand to her mouth but not collapsing as she would have, had the news involved Iban or Joseba. The two looked to Eneko and he knew. He knew.
And he also knew that life was a terrible, ugly bitch and if God indeed existed, when it was Eneko’s turn to arrive at the gates for judgment, he had some choice words to share with Him.
The sea killed Martín. Beyond that no one knew, for sure, exactly what happened.
His body was found washed up on the gray sands of a small cove, his head bloodied and his skin bloated. Alesander, who found Martín’s body, insisted Martín had told him to come that afternoon, during low tide—but it seemed Martín had gone much earlier, likely before dawn.
Everyone figured brave, brash Martín went out harvesting alone and, with no spotter to call out trouble, got smacked unconscious by a wave and drowned. The village considered the Galician’s death unfortunate, a real tragedy, but such was life in these parts. They’d been losing men to the sea for centuries.
Eneko fell quite ill for a short while after the discovery of his friend’s body. He passed in and out of high fever for a full week. Katixa stayed by his side, nursing him with cool cloths and hot broth. She told him stories of old Spain and the New World. She found the scar on his thigh and lathered it with balm. She cried sometimes and told him that she loved him, all of him, wherever he was. Please come back, Eneko. Eneko could not cry in his fevered heat, nor could he understand all of what she said. His poor mother.
A small crisis ensued concerning Martín’s body and its burial. Nobody knew how to contact his family in Galicia—or rather, how to locate and contact them in a timely manner, because the season was still hot and the village church didn't have any long-term storage that wasn’t six feet under. Ultimately, it was decided that Martín would be laid to rest in the old cemetery. This way, should his family ever come to claim his remains, there was no fussing about where the rest of the village was trying to lie in peace for all eternity.
#
“You’re doing it wrong,” said the widow Otxoa.
“But this is how I do it,” Eneko said, more confused than annoyed.
“Well. It’s wrong.”
Eneko was cleaning mushrooms. A month had passed since Martín’s death and, in order to get her melancholic but now otherwise healthy son out of the house, Katixa ordered Eneko to go and pick mushrooms for the family, and also bring some for the widow Otxoa. Thus now Eneko stood with a basket of boletos, rinsing them under the pump from the widow’s well, thinking he was doing a kindness but was, in fact, doing it wrong.
“The mushrooms absorb too much water that way,” she explained. “You only need to wipe them off with a damp cloth.”
“Oh.”
“You’re very handsome but you’re too skinny,” she said. “Come inside. I’ll make you an omelet.”
She sizzled chopped onion softly in olive oil before adding a handful of boletos and some garlic, and then, once the mushrooms had rendered their liquid and it evaporated from the pan, she added three eggs, keeping the pan high up from the flame to let the eggs set gently. She flipped the omelet onto a plate and handed it to Eneko.
The widow packed tobacco into a pipe while Eneko ate in silence. The omelet was delicious. He savored the chewy boletos and thought of mushroom hunting with Martín. To keep from crying, he bit the insides of his cheeks and focused on the plume of smoke coming from the widow’s pipe.
“Such lovely fingers,” she murmured. Then, firmly: “What are you going to do with yourself?”
“Pardon?”
“Your friend is dead. But you’re healthy and growing. Your family can’t support another bachelor for very long.”
“But I’m only fifteen.”
“Fifteen is old enough.” Smoke drifted in a soft haze around her face. “My cousin’s nephew works for the Merchants’ Guild in Bilbao. I’ll write and see if he needs an apprentice. You know your maths, correct? You know how to read? Your mother was once a teacher. I assume she taught you well.”
“Yes. But – why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why me?”
“You’ll be happier in Bilbao.”
“Um. Excuse me. What do you know about my happiness, ma’am?”
“I once had a son who was very much like you.”
Eneko swallowed. “How like me?”
“Delicate.”
A sudden fury shot through Eneko. It was less like lightning than it was a massive wave, starting in his throat and crashing through his body, cold ripples through his veins. He pushed away his empty plate, hard. The plate slid off the table and broke loudly on the stone floor.
The widow and Eneko stared at the ceramic pieces in surprise.
“I’m so sorry,” Eneko said. He meant this. He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell her everything, but for the fear he too would break into many pieces.
“I know.” The widow laid down her pipe. “And I know that if you stay here,” she said slowly, “you will become a shadow of yourself, in order to please your family. They will kill you without knowing they’re holding the blade.”
Outside, a kite shrieked its shrill, incomprehensible language. Eneko waited for the widow to share more. She did not. She stood and walked to the corner where she kept her broom. She told him it was time to go.
#
February was less cold but far more rainy than usual. Eneko walked to the village in galoshes and a raincoat to buy wine from the tavern. This was to be the last errand he would run for his mother. He was leaving for Bilbao soon to begin his apprenticeship. His raincoat was old but the galoshes were new, a gift from his parents, and they pinched his feet. He was glad to take them off inside.
The tavern was chilly and dark but it was dry. A welcome comfort. Alesander, the village drunk, was sweeping. Tidying Ibai’s tavern was one of the odd jobs around town Alesander performed. Sometimes he did these well, and sometimes he was hired only as a favor to his dead mother, who was supposedly something of a saint.
“I’m here for a demijohn of red,” Eneko said.
Alesander nodded and left through the stairs to the cellar. Ibai emerged with the wine, Alesander following close behind.
Ibai put down the demijohn on the counter. He wiped his forehead with his apron. “You all right carrying this home?”
“Yes. I got strong last summer.”
Ibai laughed. “You sure did. Look at you! The girls around here are going to miss you. You’re still so skinny, though. Your mother would kill me if you collapsed carrying this on your way back.”
“She’s the one who asked me to do it.”
“Hmm. Still. Alesander!”
“Yes?”
“Alesander. Walk Eneko—”
“—please, I can do it alone—”
“—walk Eneko to the old church, at least.”
Eneko sighed and pulled on his tight galoshes. Alesander carried the demijohn. The rain was coming down harder now. Eneko kept his head low and boots moving. He avoided looking at the sea and its gray horizon. Alesander did not seem to mind the rain. When Eneko glanced behind, Alesander smiled and held out his free hand to feel the rain on his palm.
“There’s a reason we live in a place so green,” said Alesander.
Eneko wondered if he was drunk.
They arrived at the old church. Eneko turned to take the demijohn but Alesander did not move.
“I knew him too, you know,” said Alesander in a tone Eneko did not like.
“Everyone knew him.”
“Not like us.”
Eneko felt his throat tighten and a heat rise into his cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Don’t you miss him?” asked Alesander.
He stepped close to Eneko. Eneko did not step away.
“We could miss him together.” Alesander put down the wine. Then he took Eneko’s hands in his own and held them tenderly. The two stood in the rain for a few wet heartbeats. Alesander had a fine, strong jaw and long lashes. Eneko wondered if Martín had found him beautiful, too. The idea that what Martín shared with Eneko, Martín also could have shared with Alesander, both angered and excited him.
“No,” Eneko whispered.
Alesander’s mouth twitched. “Ah,” was all he said. He turned away, head down.
Eneko knelt at Martín’s grave. It had no tombstone. It was marked only with a small pile of rocks. He brought one hand to his thigh, where the scar from Martín’s knife still lay hidden. It ached. Eneko closed his eyes. A collection of images unfolded in his mind—like flipping through pages, say, from an old textbook we cannot bring ourselves to throw away:
There was, of course, that first image of Martín rising to stand on a crag in a cove, waving at a young boy from a great distance; the image of Martín eating boletos on his birthday with buttery hands; of his smiling face leaning in for a kiss, a kiss from a god, what heaven is this?; of Martín gifting Haizea little chocolates and great joy; of Martín in the dusky forest after dinner, his hand on Eneko’s neck, urging Eneko once again to come adventure in the Arctic, instructing Eneko to meet him in their cove before dawn, their cove where the land stretched like two hands never touching—remember?, come early when the waters would be at their highest and Martín would at last dive for the remaining deep and most delicious percebes, he’d sell them and they’d have money enough to ensure a private cabin on the whaling boat, he’d bribe the captain and they could have a room all to themselves, wouldn’t that be wonderful, Eneko?, just be sure to meet me in the morning, flaco, I’ll take care of everything else.
Eneko began to cry. One mistake should never cost so much. He looked and turned to see Alesander walking away in the rain. Alesander who was not crying, not shedding one sorry tear, because his soul had long ago resigned to survive by continual, aching defeat. Eneko did not know for whom he grieved most deeply, and so he cried for them all.
# # #
J. NEVADA is a freelance writer from Atlanta, Georgia, where she lives with her husband and two daughters and sweet pit bull mix. Her fiction has appeared in The Massachusetts Review and is forthcoming in The Georgia Review.