The Mayor - Part 1 (ORIGINAL SHORT STORY)

Spain, 1940.  The aftermath of the vicious Civil War.

Sitting in the back of the car, comfortable on the crinkled dark leather, Don Emiliano was leaving Arajuna behind. It must have been past midnight, as the town was sleeping, its streets empty. He looked out of the window at the white-washed walls sweeping past, and felt the burning curiosity of hidden eyes that were straining behind the shutters, twitching at the curtains when they picked out the engine notes of the Citroen. Already the old women would be trying to guess who was taking a ride tonight, and the old men would be looking at the floor and shuffling their feet nervously.  

It would not take long before they were in the open countryside. He stretched his legs as best he could, his knees pressing gently on the back of the driver’s seat, and rested his head on the window. The vibrations of the bumpy, cobbled road jolted up through the wheels and knocked his head gently against the smeared glass pane. He found the hum of the engine at these low revs comforting, soothing, like a mechanical dirge. Arajuna had always looked best at night, under the stars and the irregular soft orange glow of the gas lanterns. The dark shadows hid the dust and the cracks in the walls and the squalor.  

The driver was wordless, he just stared intently ahead, locked into the road. Occasionally the guard riding shotgun would steal a glimpse in the rear view mirror, checking on Don Emiliano. His deep-set eyes were sullen and disinterested.  This passenger was no different to all the rest. Sooner or later they all merged into one. Names and faces were not worth remembering.  Much easier to just concentrate on well-worn route out of town. The black sedan idled past the imposing and ornate façade of casa de pueblo. 

There was a glow in the windows where the ricos were still drinking, toasting their good-fortune in the harvest, a bumper crop. The baskets that hung and chaffed around the necks of the peasants had been laden heavy with the strong, sweet Picual olives. Even better, the war had finally reached Italy and Greece, pushing the prices for the fruit of the Jaen plain higher than it had been since as long as they could remember. The native peasants were cowed and desperate. They would suffer the work for lower pay and longer hours than might’ve been forced upon them before. Their Republic had failed them, they had seen it smashed and then trampled, and they had been made to pay with their own blood, too. The fear had returned, etched into their swollen faces, and it would be a long time before they began to whine and agitate for anything reeking of change. Yes, it was good to be a rico again, and numbed by whiskey and sweet liquor of Jerez that was always stained their breath, they were unconcerned with the weekly journey of the car below. 

Don Emiliano sighed to himself as the car rounded the empty fountain. The proud heads of the stone lions held their mouths open in a defiant silent roar, but it had been years since water was sprayed out. The ledge where the pretty girls used to sit in the cooling spray had been empty for the longest time. His town was slowly vanishing, there were only the ghosts of memories; they lingered awhile before being dragged into the shadows and locked away. Everywhere a silence reigned. The people dared not gossip or talk except in whispers, always behind closed doors. Distrust and fear hung in the air. In these tough times, it seemed that the women had grown uglier too. Their hair was lank and greying, their skin wrinkled like a carob bean, and they had no eyelashes because they cried so much.  

The car glided past Luiz’s bar, where the inside was dark and gloomy like it had always been, and yet now it was a sullen, foreign place, where the drunks did not smile or laugh freely anymore. Raise the whip one hundred times and you can break the most stubborn mule. A few men sat scattered among the tables, heads hung low while sunken sighs escaped their lips at intervals. They heard the car, but would not look up. It was better not to. You might see someone that you knew. Luiz was still stood stern behind the bar. Some things did not change. He polished a glass, and held it to the flickering single bulb, then brought it back to his hand and buffed some more, eradicating the greasy smears. The exhaust was beginning to blow, but there no-one who could fix it, and as the racket faded down the street, he uncorked a bottle, and poured a shot, gulping it down quick before the pisco even had time to burn. In wordless tribute, he placed the glass upside down on the bar, gently, letting the final drops run down the side.