Page 23 of The Last Postcard

Full belly, happy heart, the saying goes. Mine had never been so empty as that evening on the beach, the end of my first day as a fugitive. My belly wrung itself out, and my guts lay leaden, unable to stir themselves to help my heart.

I staggered to my feet, thinking only of food. From along the beach came the sound of shouting and the smell of cigarette smoke. I made my way across the sand towards it. There, I saw a small boat rolling in the shallows, men swarming around it. They had formed a chain, over a dozen of them, and were passing goods from the boat to the beach, to a wagon that stood, half-loaded.

Before another minute was up they were done, pushing the boat back out to sea. In a daze, I drifted forwards. Hunger and thirst drove the fear of being recognized as a wanted woman right out of my mind.

By now, the men were crowding about someone, exclaiming and stretching out their hands. In the middle of the group, a huge man was paying the workers, counting coins into their palms. Beside him stood a man in a black hat, wearing a starched collar despite the heat. Money – the thought crossed my brain, slug-like – that was what I needed. Money for food and drink and a safe place to spend the night.

Finally, the last men were paid. They dispersed, laughing together, weighing their wages in their hands. One of them caught me staring.

‘Hola chica,’ he said, rolling a coin.

I ignored him, watching the man in the black hat instead, the one who was undoubtedly in charge. But he was already walking away, the leather bag held tight. Abruptly the beach looked deserted.

‘Wait!’ I heard myself calling. The worker who had spoken to me turned back.

‘Changed your mind?’ he leered.

‘Please. Can you spare a céntimo? I haven’t eaten for days.’

He laughed at that, showing the dark gaps of missing teeth. ‘You and me both, sister.’

His friends were catcalling, telling him to hurry up and not to bother talking to a perra.

‘Please,’ I said, following him as he walked. ‘I’ll pay you back when I find work. I’m a good cook, I just need to eat. Please.’

The man’s smile sank into irritation. ‘You want work, go do it on the Calle Mirimar, like all the other whores.’

I watched him go, biting back tears of shame and anger. Except for the Señor, it had been a long time since any man had spoken to me like that. They didn’t dare; even the truly insolent ones usually held their tongues when they realized that I was in charge of the kitchen, and could easily drop something foul into their food, or worse.

But that world was gone. Out here, I was nothing. These people didn’t know that I could take offcuts of meat and stew them into spiced softness or make a man sick to the guts with a few pinches of powder in his soup; that I could mix a drink to empty a purse or cook a rabo de toro that could lead a girl to murder. All they saw was a woman in stained clothes with a bruised, sunburned face. I truly understood then, for the first time, how the girls at the inn must have felt. Long hair and a skirt and a pair of open legs, that was all men saw of them. It was all men would see of me now. I had wanted to disappear into a wash of humanity, but not like that. Never like that.

My wandering steps took me into a town; La Atunara, I saw it was called. It began as a stretch of shanties beyond the beach, makeshift structures of wood and tin, tar-smeared cloth and whatever else could be found to plug the holes. Children played naked in the dust, dogs roamed, vines and small trees sprang in yards, where chickens scratched hopefully. Amongst it all, I went entirely unnoticed.

Eventually, the street widened and the houses became bars, gaudy with tacked-up advertisements. On one corner, a woman was cooking fish over a brazier. Sardines, whole, skewered four to a stick, grilled in nothing but salt and their skin. The scent of food made me stagger with longing, and I reeled out of the thoroughfare to lean against a wall.

It can’t have been more than a minute or two before I heard someone addressing me. I opened my eyes. It was a girl, her lips rouged, her blouse worn sheer, showing the frayed lace of her chemise.

‘What?’ I murmured.

‘I said that’s Concetta’s spot. She’ll beat you if you stay there.’

I blinked at her, but the street seemed to be lurching forwards and backwards. All I could do was steady myself on the wooden wall, and close my eyes again.

She swore and walked away. I willed myself not to faint. If I collapsed, no one would lift me up, and if they did, it would not be in kindness.

‘Here,’ I heard the girl’s voice again, up close now. ‘These are mine but you can have a few.’

She was holding out a newspaper bundle. The smell hit me, fish oil, chargrilled flesh, warm paper. It was filled with scraps of sardines, the bits that had fallen off into the brazier.

‘She lets us have these for cheap,’ the girl said, jerking her head at the fish-woman. ‘Knows we don’t have time to eat a whole stick. I tried once. Made me sick, eating them that fast.’ She picked out a chunk of blackened fish, and ate it. ‘Well?’ she asked, chewing.

I reached towards the paper, took a piece and put the whole thing in my mouth. It was glorious, burnt salt, sweet flesh that tasted just how the sea had smelled. We never had fish that fresh at the inn. Often I had to spice it with a heavy hand, redden it with paprika and pepper to disguise the fact it was bad. But this … I reached for another piece.

We ate like that, chewing and spitting out the sharp bones, until the fish was all gone, and only the oily paper remained.

‘Thank you,’ I told her, my mouth tingling with salt. ‘I was about to die of hunger.’

She dropped the paper to the ground. ‘You just get here?’