SERA

BartKingma

TranslatedintoEnglishbyTrevorScarse

Cover photo: Bart Kingma

1.

She likes the atmosphere as she enters the hall. The evening’s entertainment is at its midpoint,

noticeably.Someoftheyouthsarealreadywalkingaroundwearily,themoreexperiencedpartofthe

publicisstilltalkingleisurelyingroupsintheknowledgethattherealdealisstilltocome.Theyaren’t

interestedthatmuchinthebandthatisplaying.Theacousticsaredreadfulinthelargeshipyard,but

fortunately this disguises the quality of the trio. Sera looks around the hall. Festivalgoers are the

sameeverywhere.Beards,tattoos,alotofdenimandleather,earringsinallshapesandsizes:maybe

justafewmorenoseringsandblackplasticearringsthanbackhome.

Thebarisonthelongsideofthehall.Herebeersaredrawnintoformlessroundglasses.But

shehasseenthisallaroundtheBasqueCountry,soitdoesn’tdeterher.

“Onholiday?”asksaguywaitingnexttoherinthelineforthebar.

Shealwaysfeelsabitawkward,abitcaughtout,whenshegetsrecognizedimmediatelyas

anoutsider.Thelightbrowneyesoftheguyarefriendlyhowever,andhehasasoftvoice.

“Sortof.Aworkingholiday,moreorless.”

“Whatkindofworkdoyoudo?”

“I’masinger.”

Hisfacelightsup.Helikesthemusiciantype,hesays.Hecan’tplayanythinghimself,muchto

hisregret.Still,heoftenmeetsalotofmusiciansthroughhiswork.

Seraseeshe isproudof that fact.She’s leftwithnootheroptionthantoaskhimwhathis

occupationis.

He’svolunteeringheretodaybecausethisfestivalisheldinhisownvillage,heanswers,but

heusuallyworksasaroadieforallsortsofbandsfromtheregion.Thatwayheisscouringnearlyall

concertsand festivals, in theneighbourhoodand farbeyond.Heoncemeta singer in Francewho

lookedabitlikeher.

Serausually loathespeoplewhowant tocramtheirwhole lifestory ina talkofonlya few

minutes,butinawaythisboyhasacertaincharmsincehe‘squiteoblivioustothefactthatthiskind

of talk doesn’t make any impression at all on a forty-year-old woman. But maybe he’s too

self-involved tonotice thathehasno chancewithher.Thathas something touchingabout it. She

shouldbecarefulnottosmiletoomuchathim.Sheestimatesthathe’sabouteighteenyearsold,no

older.Shedecidesnot toask follow-upquestions, sohe’s forced to tryanotherapproach.Shestill

can’testablisheyecontactwith thepersonnelbehindthebar.Theboydoessucceedtoorder two

beersthough.

“Willyouperformtonight?”heasks.

“Tonight?No,Iwon’t.”

“Someothertimeduringyourstayhere?”

Twoglassesofbeerappearinfrontofthelad.Heputstwotokensdownnexttothem,which

almostslideoffthewetboard.

Serashakesherhead.No,notplanningto.Noaudienceforthemoment,thatiswhatshehas

beenlookingforwardto.Nottobegawkedat,beherownpersonagain.Seewhatthatdoesforher.

Atthemomentshehasn’tyetmuchtosayaboutthelastpart,bytheway.

“Doyoulikeithere?”Heoffersherabeer.“MynameisIbon,bytheway.”

“Sera. Thanks. Yes, I find it beautiful here.” She looks at him unabashedly, as candid as

possiblebutnotprovocative,tolethimknowshestandsnononsense.Hedoesn’tgivein,looksback

cheerfully,nochangeinintentvisibleinhisbrowneyes.

“Sodo I.TheBasqueCountry is likeparadise.WhenI’msomewhereelse, Ialwayswish I’m

backhereagain.”

“Yes, that is the problem with paradise,” she smiles knowingly. “It exists only in your

imagination. Paradise is only paradisewhen you’ve left it behind or when it still lies ahead.” She

hopeshedoesn’tinquirehowshecameuponsuchwisdom.

Ibonnodsunderstandingly.Hethentugsonhersleeve.Abittooforceful,sheistemptedto

resist.Henoticesit, letsgoandsoothesherdiscomfortwithaglance,thenwalkstothesideofthe

hall.Sheshufflesafterhimobediently.

“Look”,hesays,whentheyreachanopendooroverlooking theendof thebay.Theday is

slowlyfadingaway.

She takes a look. Hobby fishermen on the rocks, a pilot ship leaving harbour, the radio

antenna high on the cliff, the light beacon at the end of the pier. It must have been lit up just

beforehand.

“Lookatthetextonthepier”,Ibonclarifies.

Shesearches.Bigwhiteletterschalkedontheconcrete.‘Presoaketxera,amnistia’.Onlythe

lastwordsheunderstands.

“ItsaysthatallBasqueprisonersmustbereturnedhome”, Ibonsays.“It’sthepolicyofthe

SpanishgovernmenttoputalltheBasqueswho’veeverbeenarrestedforterrorism,inprisonsasfar

away from the Basque Country as possible. They’re locked up in Andalusia, Extremadura,Murcia.

Sheerlunacy,ofcourse.Thefartherawaytheyare,themoretheyseethiscountryasaparadise,the

fiercertheirBasqueidentitybecomes.Itwouldbemuchbettertobringthembackhere.Thatwaywe

cantendtothemandtakeawaythosetensions.”

“Butthey’reterrorists,aren’tthey?”

Theladshakeshishead.Seracannotgaugehisreaction:doeshedisagreewithher,ordoes

hedisapproveofthedegreeofignoranceofherquestion.Hekeepsquiet.Shegazesatthepier.An

oldercouplestrollsonthepiertowardsthebeacon.Thelightflashesred.Twopolyesterboatswith

fishermendock.

Sheturnsaround.Ibonhasgone.Theoldshippingwarehousehasquitefilledupwithpeople

now.Themainacthasalreadybegun.ThefirstsongofTxiki&Arrakastahasjustfinished.Ohwell,

thoseusuallyarenothingmore thanglorifiedsoundchecksanyway.Txiki is standingawkwardly in

frontofhistrio.Abigmanwithsquareglassesandafull,blackbeard inwhichhehashungyellow

and blue beads. Nevertheless she likes his voice, whichmatches his full beard and guitar play. It

makesherthinkoftheearlynineties,whenalllocalbandsdidtheirutmosttobecomethenextPearl

Jam,Nirvana,Bush, SoundgardenorGreenDay. Shehas always loved thatdeep sound. It is quite

possiblethatTxikiandhisbandstartedinthattimetoo;theyallseemtobeintheirforties,exceptfor

thebassplayer.Theguitariststillfitsintohisleathertrousers,thedrummerprobablygavethatupa

longtimeago.Shecan’tunderstandthelyrics,buttheysoundserious.Theaudiencesingsalongwith

mostofthem.SeraonlyrecognisesaroughcoverofThePartisanbyLeonardCohen.Sheclapsher

handsandlooksaroundtoseethattheaudienceisverymovedbythesong.

AbouttenmetrestoherleftsherecognisesIbon.Shesmilescarefullyathim.Hesmilesback,

stepstowardsher.Sheletshimcome.

“Doyouknowthedifferencebetweenapartisanandaterrorist?”heasks.

Sheshrugshershoulders.

“Themessenger. If he dislikes you, he calls you a terrorist. If you’re his friend, you are a

partisan.”

Hegivesheracrypticlook.Shedoesn’treallyknowhowtoanswerit.

“Sowhatareyou?”sheasks.

Heglancesabout.“Everyoneiseverythingaroundhere,”hesays.“Terrorist,partisan,victim,

culprit.Orelseyou’rethechildofone.”

“Areyouthesonofaterroristthen?Orofapartisan?Or…”

“I’mthechildofallofthem.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”

Hedoesn’trespond.

“Areyoufreetomorrowevening?”heasks.

Yes,sheis.

Ibon fishes a ticket out of his pocket and gives it to her. “Here. Baiona, or Bayonne, just

acrosstheborder.Abertsolari-festivalisheldtheretomorrow.Doyouknowwhatthatis?”

Yes,sheknows.ShesawvideosonYoutubeoftheartformthat issopopulararoundhere.

Thebertsolarishavetoimproviselyricsbasedonanassignmenttheygetonthespot.Asonghasto

bethoughtupspontaneouslyandbeperformed.

“Willyoubethere?”,sheasks.

“Yes,butIhavetowork”,hegrinsather.“That’swhyyougetmyticket.”

2.

From the outside the building seemed somewhat rundown, but inside the big sports centre of

Bayonne is intimate andwarm. Sera guesses there are at least five thousandpeople sitting in the

stands and seats. A senseof happy expectationhangs in the air. The stagehas six empty seats, a

lecternanda television spot.A fewcamerasare setup for the livebroadcast.Notmuchelsewas

done for decoration, but people are excitedly waiting as if Beyoncé will perform. Technicians in

denimtrousersandblackpoloshirtsarewalkingleftandright.Shecan’tseeIbonanywhereyet.

Shelooksfortheseatindicatedonherticket:fourthrow,seat23.Aftershestumbledpasta

fewpeople,shefindsherseat,nexttoagirl.Orisitayoungwoman?Shecouldbetwenty,butthirty

fiveisjustaslikely.Herfaceisverysmooth,nowrinkleorbeautymarktobeseen.Shehasgotsmall,

butbeautiful lightbrowneyes.But themoststriking ishershortblackhair,whichshehascut ina

Mondrian style model: angular sections interspersed with circular patterns and a few long thin

strands hanging from her head. Sera can’t immediately decide whether she likes it or not, but

combined with her slender figure and delicate features the hair style gives the girl a singular

presencewhichmakesSeranearlyjealous.ThegirlnodsfriendlytoSera,asifshewaswaitingforher

arrival.Sheisn’tusedtothiskindofreceptioninthisneighbourhood.Sheanswerswithafriendlynod

andflopsdownintothebucketseatmadeofredplastic.

There is a buzz all around her. Elderly people, but also a lot of youths. They’re talking,

hummingandlookingoutforfamiliarfacestogreet.

Thenthemusicstartsandeveryonestartstoclapandsingalong.Fromasideentrancethesix

contestantsofthisbertsolari-festivalmarchinsinglefileintothehall.Thelastone…that’sIbon!Sera

laughs. Couldn’t he just have told her, instead of calling it ‘working’? Together with the other

contestants Ibonclimbsontothestageandtimidly receives theapplause.All sixof them lookas if

theydidnothavetimetochange.Thetwowomendidnotthinktotryonanicedressandthemen

seeminglyhavealso left their smart shirtsand jacketsathome. Ibonwearsbrowncorduroy slacks

andablueseaman’spullover.

When the presenter introduces Ibon to the crowd, the girl next to her clapsmuch harder

thanshedidfortheothers.Seralooksatherquestioningly.Shesmiles.

“He’smylittlebrother.”

She should have known, of course. The empty chair, the warm welcome, the same light

browneyes.Seranodsjoviallyandputsoutherhand.

“Sera.”

“Quesera,sera!MynameisAran.”Herwholefacelightsupasshesmiles.AranknewSera

wouldcome,shesays.Ibonhadtoldher.Andshewilldoherbesttohelpherguestunderstandwhat

isabouttohappen.Seranodsgratefullytoher.ShelooksfromArantoIbon.Thereheis,bothhands

inhispockets.On the stagehe isby far theyoungest.Brotherand sisterhave the sameeyes, the

sameskincolour.

“Ibondidn’ttellmehewasabertsolari.”

“Ibonkeepsquietaboutalotofthings”,Arananswers.“Hehasn’tbeenaseriouscompetitor

forlong.Buthehasgottalent,becausehe’salreadyinthefinals.”

Thepresenterasksforeveryone’sattentionforthefirstround.Thecontestantshavetorole

playinpairs.ItmakesSerathinkof‘Whatismyline?’andotherimprovisationaltelevisionprograms,

butshe isastoundedwhenthebertsolarisbegin.Notonlydotheygetasubject,butalsoametre.

Theyonlyhaveafewsecondstocomeupwithastory,concoctamelodytogowithit,makeuplyrics

thatfitthemetreándrhyme,andsingit.Withoutanymusicians,withoutanypreparation.

AranoccasionallyscribblesdowninafewkeywordsanEnglishtranslationinanotebookshe

broughtalong,andshowsittoSera.ThroughthismethodSeraunderstandsthatthebertsolarissing

humorouslyandearnestlyabouteverysubjectthey’regiven.Oneofthecontestantsbringsthehouse

downwithatelephonecallinwhichDonaldTrumptriestotalkcourteouslyaboutClinton,butcan’t

help himself and keeps mockingly calling her Hillahahahary. One of the others sings about the

beautifulsadnessofgoingonholidayonyourown.Thecontestantsgetscoremarksonthequalityof

thecontent,languageusageandsingingability.

Aran’sfingersturnbluefromallthescribblingwhichSeragreatlyappreciates.Thiswayshe

can followwhat is being said. In a one-two Ibon sketches a beautiful scene about twobartenders

who findout there isnobooze left. Thewhole room is rollingon the floorwhen Ibon sings tohis

gueststhathedefinitelyhadaskedthesuppliertocomearoundonNovember31st.

During the break the judges decide who the two finalists will be. Sera asks what Ibon’s

chances are. Aran shrugs. Her face has gone red, shewipes her forehead. She hopes hewill, she

hopes,shesays.

Seradoessotoo.

The judges’decision ishandedover tothepresenter.Thepresenterreadsthepaper, looks

surprisedandwalkstothemicrophone.ThefirstfinalistisOdei.Nosurprisethere,saysAran,hewas

thefavouritebeforehand.ThesecondfinalistISasurprise.Aranshrieks,Seracheers.

Hegot intothe final round, thatyoungboywhoseeyesare justasprettyashissister’s.Aboyshe

wouldliketogiveabearhug,eventhoughsheisstillnotquitecertainwhy.

The final assignment is no joke. Both have to sing a story about amarried couplewalking

alongaravineduringahike.Bothbertsolarisneedtocomeupwiththefeelingsofthecouplebeing

there and how the story continues. They have to tell it in three verses of ten lines, alternating

betweensevenandsixsyllables,andeverysecondlinehastorhyme.

Odeiisledoutoftheroom,sohecan’thearwatIbonsings.Theboyisnowcompletelyalone

on stage.Hands in his pockets, his head held high in concentration. Thehall quietens down. Sera

holds her breath, as does Aran. She doesn’t dare to look up at her brother and is staring at the

programbookletunderherchair.Thethinstrandsofhairhangdowntoherknees.

Ibonstarts.Hisvoiceisabituncertain.Serahearsherneighbourgasp.Fromtherestofthe

audience she senses that Ibon is doing something special, she canhear somemurmuring.Already

afterthefirstversehegetsabigapplause.Ibongiveshimselfafewsecondstothink.Seralooksto

her left. Aran turns to her andwhispers: “This is about our parents. They’re divorced. Because of

whatmyfatherdid.”

Sera nods. What else can she do? Ibon continues. A few people sitting around them

apparentlyknowthatAranishissister,becausetheykeeplookingather.Shekeepshereyesfixedon

thebooklet.YoucanclearlyhearfromIbon’svoicethatthestoryaffectshim,buthekeepsincontrol.

There isabsolutesilence fora fewseconds,before thesecondversegetsanevenbiggerapplause

thanthefirst,whileIbonisgettingreadyforthefinalverse.Arandoesn’treallywanttotalk,butSera

keepslookingather,fullofquestions.“Mumisn’taliveanymore.Shecommitted…”.Aranmakesa

gesture,butsheseemstowanttotakeitbackimmediately.

Then Ibon walks up to the microphone again. He swallows. He starts the first line. Sera

countsalong.Exactlysevensyllables.Thenalineofsix.Thenagainoneof…Ibonstumbles.Hethen

looksattheaudienceforthefirsttime.Thefearisclearlyvisibleinhiseyes.Hecan’tgoon.Hangshis

head.Theaudiencesoftly letsan‘aww’out.Ibontakesadeepbreath,grabsthemicrophoneinhis

hand,readytocontinue.Hismouthopens.Butnosoundemergesfromit.HelooksinSera’sdirection

– no, his sister’s. Then he squeezes his eyes shut. He takes a step backwards, away from the

microphone.Withanapologeticnodtothepresenterhesitsbackdowninhischair,andcovershis

eyeswithhishands.Nosound isheardforasecondortwo,thenahugeapplausefillsupthehall.

Just as everybodyelse Sera standsup fromher chair and starts clapping, harder andharder. Ibon

won’twinthefinal,butitcan’tgetanymoreemotionalthanthis.

Onlythendoesshelookatherneighbour.Thegirlisstillsittinginherchair,doesn’tdareto

standupandlookshelplesslytoherright.Serahelpsherup.Peoplearelookingather.Seraputsher

armaroundthegirl.

3.

Theygetintothecar.Ibonpointsoutthattheycanjustdrivestraightoutofthestreet.Thenleftat

theT-junctionontoaroadoutofthevillage.Asignindicatesadeadendafter15kilometres.

“There’sanaturereserveattheend.We’lldrivealittlethatway”,hesays.

Firsttheroadfollowsastreamthroughavalley,butatahamlettheroadbendsupintothe

mountains.Theroadgetsnarrowerandsteeperhere.It’swetandtheasphaltiscoveredinleaves,so

she doesn’t want to go too fast through the twists and turns, although she needs to keep the

acceleratordowntomaintainspeed.Thesunglistensthroughthetrees,sosheneedstoconcentrate

tomaintaingoodvisibility.Ibondoesn’tsayanythingeither.Herummagesthroughhisbackpack.

Forseveralminutestheyzigzagupthehill.Nowandagaintheygetabeautifulviewof the

countryside.A fewmountainbikerspedalupwards in lowgear, swayingover the road. Sera slows

down,takesherfootofftheacceleratortochangeintofirstgear.Onlyonabroaderpieceofroadis

shebraveenoughtoovertakethecyclists.

“Didyoustaylong,yesterday?”sheasks.

Heshakeshishead.“No.IhadtowishOdeiluck,ofcourse,andItalkedwithafewfromthe

organisation and others, but we left quickly after that. Oh well, it was nice to be in the final, of

course.ButIdidn’twantittoendthisway.”

Only two kilometresof road to go according to the road signs. There is a small open field

withinaninsidebend.Ibonpointstoit,lettingherknowshecanparkthere.Theyaretheonlyones

here,althoughtheweatherismagnificent.Seraparksthecarinthemossandturnsofftheengine.

OnlythendoessheseethatIbonhadhardlyanybeardgrowth.Justafewpatchesofstubblesonhis

jawline,nomorethanthat.Butitlooksbetterthanitisbecauseofitsblackcolour.Theygetoutof

thecar.Thereareconcretepicnictablesandtwodustbins.Ibonthrowssomeplasticpackinghegot

fromhisbagintooneofthebins.

Ontheothersideoftheroadtheascendingslopeiseasilyscalable.Butsincesheisstillstiff

fromsittingdown, it’sabitofastruggleforSera. Ibonwalksafewstepsaheadofher.Afterafew

minutestheyreachthetop.Serapants,butasshecatchesherbreath,shenoticestheuttersilence

uphere.Youcan’tevenhearanybirdsorcowbells.Ibonfindsalargeslabstickingoutofthegreenery

andsitsdownon it.Fromheretheyhaveadazzlingviewofthemountains.Serasitsdownnextto

him.Infrontofthemtheycanseeseveralhilltops.Greyrocks,likelidsongreenbrowncones.Quietly

they let theviewsink in. Somethinghangs in theair.Abuzzard,ormaybeahawk? Itmakes large

circleswithoutflappingitswings.

“Nooneliveshereanymore”,Ibonsays.“Theroadendsbehindthismountainridge.”

“Soforyouit’snottheseathatistheendoftheworld,buttheland”,smilesSera.

Ibondoesn’trespondtothis.“Peoplefromthevillageoftencomeheretopickmushrooms,

orberries.Foreignersdon’tcomeheremuchbecause itends inthemiddleofnowhere.So it’s like

ourownlittleworldhere.”

“Wereyoubornhere?”

“Yes.Soweremyfatherandmother.Thiscountryisinourblood.”

“Icanseewhyyoulovethiscountry.It’ssobeautiful.”Shemeansit.

“That’sourpunishment”,saysIbon.“It’ssostunningherethatwedon’tevenconsiderliving

anyplaceelse.Sowe’restuckhere.Trappedinparadise.Whichnolongermakesitparadise.”

Shenodsinunderstanding.Ibongetsabottleofciderfromhisbaganddrinksstraightfrom

thebottle,afterwardsheoffersittoSera.She’sunsurewhethertoaccept,thinkingofallthebends

sheneedstogetthroughonthewayback.

Hecatchesherhesitation.“Alittlewon’thurt.Ithasalmostnoalcohol.”

Shetakesafewsips.It’sverynice.

“Theyusedtoholdraceshere.Firsttheydrankawholebottleofcideruphere,thenseewho

couldracethefastestdowntothebottomofthevalley. Intheirrundowncars:Kadetts,Taunusses

andthelike.Myfathercompetedoften.”

“Didn’tanybodygethurt?”

Heshrugs.“Noonedoesitanymore.Shallwewalkabitfurther?”Hepointstotheright. It

doesn’tlooklikeasteepclimb,andtheywouldstayabovethetreeline.Seraacquiesces.Theygetup

andstartwalking.

“Doyoulivealonewithyourfather?”

“Yes,Ido.”Shegiveshimaquestioninglook,expectingmore.Hehesitatesabit.“Aranlives

inDonostia,onherown.Igotherequiteoften.ButIcan’tleavemyfatheraloneformorethanone

night,soIalwayscomeback.”

“What’swrongwith him?” The path is narrowhere,with a stone staircase going up. Ibon

leadstheway.Theyneedeverybreathforthisclimb.Seraknowsthatthisgiveshimtheopportunity

toavoidtalking.Shedoesn’tbegrudgehimthatwayout.

Ibon waits until they reach the top. “It started slowly. He went outside less and less,

especiallyafterourmotherwasgone.Everything shutdown. Inourhouse,butalso inhimself.He

didn’tsocialiseanymore,hidinhisshell.”

“Anyreasonforthat;howdiditbegin?”Seraasks.

Ibon looksaround.Theasphaltroad is fiftymetresbelowthem, itgoesstraightdownfrom

there.Thefieldsareopenhere,theslopessteep.Ibonpoints inthatdirection.“Yes, itstartedover

there.”

Theyneededhalfanhourtogetto‘there’.Theytookthelongwayround,becauseitwasmuchtoo

dangeroustogostraightdown.Thepathswerealreadyslipperyandsteep.Theyhadtogothrougha

patchofwoods,butnowit isbareagain.Theyhavetotalk louderthanSerawould likebecauseof

thenoiseofaflowingcreek.Thepathendsatasmallconcretebridgeacrossthewater.Ibonwalks

towardsitandstops.Seralooksabouther.Thevalleyisencircledbymountains,asifitwereahuge

bowl.Theasphaltroadloopsaroundthemahundredmetresabove.

Theyhadbeenfriendssincechildhood,Ibontoldheronthewaydown.HisfatherandXabier.

They played in the streets together, went to school together, and walked home together in the

afternoonbecausetheylivednexttoeachother.Theyhadthesametoys,boughtthesamemoped,

exchangedmusicandgirls,andgotinthecartogethertowinthedownhillraces.

“Andthentheybothstartedafamily?”asksSeraasshesitsdownononeofthestepsofthe

bridge.

“Theybothmarriedagirl fromtheirvillage.Thereweren’tmanywomenthere,so itwasa

kindoftangleofmessyaffairs.Butitworkeditselfout.Myfatherhadagaragewherehefixedcars,

bicycles and mopeds. And he had a job on the side as a courier, carrying packages to the city

etcetera.Mumworkedatthebakery,wherethewholevillagecametodrinkcoffeeortxakoliandeat

pintxos.Whenwewere small, Aran and I oftenwent there and got a treat. Xabier’swifeworked

theretoo,butshedidn’tgetalongwithmymotheraswellastheirhusbandsdid.”

“Anddidthatendthefriendship?”

Ibonshookhishead.“Xabierwentintopolitics.Whichdidn’tgodownwellwiththepeoplein

theirvillage.HejoinedthePartidoPopular.StraightfromtheFrancostable,accordingtothepeople

here.Our villagewas veryproudof theirBasqueheritage,of course, so any Francoistwouldhave

problemshere.However,Xabiergrewupinafamilysincereintheirbeliefthataunitarystatewould

bebetter for the country. AndXabier quickly establishedhimself as an important politician in the

region.”Ibongetsatortillasandwichfromhisbackpackandoffersittoher.Seradeclines.

“MyfatherandXabiermanagedtostayfriendsthough”,Iboncontinues.“Itwashard,butmy

fathermaintainedthattheycouldkeeptheirfriendshipseparatefromtheirpolitics.Theyjustdidn’t

talkaboutit,hesaid.Theykeptongoingintothemountains,onfootorbycar.Aftermyfatherhad

fixedacar,heusuallydroveittothetopandback,asatest.”Ibontakesabitefromthetortillaand

fallssilentforamoment.

Seralooksaroundhertogivehimsometime.Acardrivesdowntheroadandtheycanhearit

slowdownasitchangesgear.Ibongetsupandwalkstotheotherendofthebridge.Hepointsatthe

stepsonthatside.Theendsarecrumbling,thereinforcementrodscanbeseeninthecracksofthe

concrete.Achunkofconcreteismissingfromthebase.

“Xabiermet his end here. Sometime in the late nineties he andmy father drove downhill

behindeachother.Xabierdroveofftheroad,felldownintotheravine.Hiscarcametoahaltatthe

baseofthisbridge.Afterthecarhadrolledoverumpteentimes,ofcourse.”

Seralooksatit.Shenoticesthatthecrashhadnotonlysmashedawaypartofthesteps,but

alsoputthewholestructureoutofjoint.

“Andwhataboutyourfather?”

“Hesaidtherewasnothinghecouldhavedone.TohissurpriseXabierhadsuddenlyslipped

onastraightstretchofroadandwentdownthecliff,hesaid.”

“Andhecouldnothelphim?”

Ibon shakeshishead. “He saidhe couldn’t.But thenETAmadea statement that theyhad

successfullyassassinatedXabier.Thatsowedseedsofdoubt.”

“Thatmusthavebeenterribleforyourfather.Didhethenbecomeasuspect?”

“Idon’tknowwhateverybodybelieved.Butmyfathervowedthat ithadbeenanaccident.

Nonetheless everything changed after that. Some acquaintances started to avoid him, he lost

customers;mymother couldn’twork alongside Xabier’swife anymore and had to quit. Times got

toughathome.Lessmoney,moretensions.Tensionsalsorosebetweenmyparents.Weheardthem

arguemoreandmore.AtnightAranandIheldeachothertight,butthatdidn’thelp.Sheprayedfor

love,but itdidn’t come.My fatherwasathomemoreandmore,becausehegot lessworkat the

garage. He stopped working as a courier, but we didn’t know why. And he never left the house

anymore.Slowlyitbecameunbearableathome.Inthebeginningtheywaitedwithquarrellinguntil

wewereinbed,butintheendtheycouldn’tevenmanagetowaituntilthen.Thevolcanowasabout

toburst.”

“Andatlastiterupted?”

“Eventuallymumputtheknifetohisthroat.Almostliterally.Oneeveningshewasstanding

infrontofhimwavingsomethingaround. Ican’trememberanymorewhether itwasaknife,but it

wassomekindofkitchenutensil shehad inherhand.Wewerestanding in thedooropening,but

theydidn’tevennotice.Mumwaswillingtohurthimifhedidn’tsayout loudwhathadhappened

thedaythathadchangedherlifecompletely.Finally,myfatheradmittedit.”

“Thatitwasn’tanaccident?”

Ibonnods.Heswingsthebackpackoverhisshoulders.Theyfollowthesamepathback.After

awhile they leave the creek behind themandwalk through thewoods again. It is nice and quiet

here.Thetreesareinterspersedwidely,onelargebrowntapestryinbetweenthem.Serakicksupthe

leaves.Presentlytheyhavetoclimbagain,soSeratriestoslowthemdown,sotheycankeeptalking.

Shestartswalkinginfrontofhim,backwards,facingIbon.Hegetsthemessage.Theyhalt.

“Hiscourierworkwasn’tthatinnocent,headmitted.DadwasincontactwithETA,keptthem

informed about the happenings in the village and ran goods for them. He probably hid weapons

somewhereuphereinthemountains.Enoughpossibilitiesforthathere.Anyway,onedayhegotthe

order to execute Xabier. He didn’t dare to refuse, but agonised over it forweeks, he told us that

evening. He just couldn’t shoot his best friend. Still, he supported the idea that anti-Basque

politicianslikeXabiershouldbeeliminated,andhecouldn’trefuseanordercomingfromETA.Inthe

endhemadeadecision.HeaskedXabiertomeethimonthemountain,andcoaxedhimintoonelast

racetothefootofthemountain.Thereonthatstraightstretchofroaditiswideenoughfortwocars.

MyfatherwasabletodrivehiscarnexttoXabier’sandrunhimofftheroad.”

Serafindsatreetoleanagainst.Ibonstandsinfrontofher,drawingcirclesintheleaveswith

histoes.

“Myfatherwentdownto thecar, tocoverhis tracksandmakehisstorycredible.Thenhe

wenttosearchforhelp.Hethoughthecouldgetawaywithitthatway.Hestucktohisstory,even

whenpeoplestartedtoquestionhisexplanations.Hesteadilylosthisequilibrium,however.Hekept

silentforacoupleofyears,butthenmymothergothimtalking.Justthatonetime.”

“Andshecouldn’tlivewiththatrevelation?Theravineyousangaboutlastnight…”

Ibonnodsslowly.“Someonewhowantstocoverupviolence,createsaninvisibleenemyhe

can’tdefeat.Sincethenmyfatherliveswithoutreallyexisting.Hecan’tbeamongotherpeople,but

hecan’tbealoneeither.Hehaslostallcontroloverhimself.”

Ibonthrowshisbackpackontothebackseat.Serastartsthecar.Sheslowlybacksupontothe

road. Then she changes the car into second gear immediately, after which the car virtually

freewheels down the hill. On the stretch of road where Xavier drove off the road, stands an

aluminiumcrashbarrier,paintedredandwhite.