“What things?”
“Well, the holy mass is a class-conscious ceremony, after all, so the humbler the congregation, the better. The Marquises of Santo Tomé have owned these lands for centuries. Half the families of the region have worked for them at one time or another, and there still exists a feudal notion of protection granted by the lord of the manor. When you or your ancestors have worked for him, that’s considered to confer a portion of his honor and distinction on you and yours.”
“A distinction for the ignorant.”
“Well, don’t be so sure,” Gri?án disagreed. “The majority of today’s Spanish aristocrats are extraordinarily discreet, except for the handful who appear in the tabloids. The rest live private lives. However, in certain circles of society it’s still considered a boon to be able to flaunt one’s friendship with nobility. An aristocrat’s recommendation or sponsorship for a business deal or a diplomatic appointment remains an advantage very few are willing to forgo.”
Many villages had churches smaller than this one. The avenue bordered by century-old olive trees ended at the perfectly circular open space of the church and cemetery. The church entrance was directly in front of them, but the building also had a side entrance flanked by two narrow stained glass windows and reached by three awkwardly steep steps.
A stiff breeze scarcely screened by the ancient trees had blown pine needles across the access path. The wind blew insistently across the bare esplanade that stretched around three sides of the church. The space behind was dedicated to the cemetery. Simple stone crosses stood in the well-kept grassy plot. Manuel’s quick count added up to about twenty of them. There was nothing else other than an ominous mound of earth alongside a recently dug grave. There was no fence to enclose the cemetery. After all, what for? Everything here belonged to the family.
So this was where álvaro had wanted to be buried. Manuel didn’t blame him—what alternative could he as álvaro’s bereaved husband have offered? Maybe a service at the funeral home by the M-30 highway and a small plot in Madrid’s huge, crowded Almudena Cemetery. He couldn’t recall ever having discussed the subject. Despite the undeniable beauty of the surroundings and the tidy simplicity of the weathered gravestones, there was a desolation about the place. But wasn’t that true of any cemetery? Confronted by stark reality, he was forced to admit his preconceptions: for some reason he’d been expecting an elaborately ugly family crypt.
“They’re very devoted Catholics, like most of the aristocracy. And like the rest of their ilk, they make provisions for a simplicity and austerity beyond this life in stark contrast to their preferences in this one.” Gri?án accompanied him to the church entrance. A crowd of probably more than a hundred people was gathered outside.
He saw people whispering discreetly to one another, pulling their dark jackets tight against the wind gusting across the open space before the church. Many turned to look at Manuel and his escort, but no one approached them. Doval, the executor’s diligent assistant, had been sheltering from the morning chill in the lee of the wall, and he came out to greet them. Manuel noticed for the first time that both men were dressed in impeccably tailored black suits. His own double-breasted blue jacket and rumpled shirt made him feel out of place, and he became aware that the crowd was studying him with a morbid curiosity. Disapproving looks condemned his informal dress. The touch of Gri?án’s respectful hand on his shoulder comforted him and guided him to the entrance to escape the inquisitive inspection of the locals.
“There aren’t many people here. Of course, it’s quite early,” the assistant sought to explain.
“You said there aren’t many?” replied Manuel, careful not to look back but aware of a growing murmur. The crowd seemed to have doubled in the short time they’d been there.
“The family desired a simple private service,” Gri?án declared. “Since his death was unexpected. In other circumstances . . .”
Manuel gave him a miserable look. The administrator turned away his gaze, tactfully declining to go into more elaborate explanations. Doval came to his assistance.
“We can go inside. The family is about to arrive.” He immediately realized his error and did his best to correct it. “I do beg your pardon. I meant to say the rest of the family.”
The church was packed. He’d already been impressed by the number attending when he thought those outside were the only ones there; once inside, he realized that they’d been outside only because the church was already full. He looked down, overcome and disoriented, grateful as a lost child for Gri?án’s firm hand guiding him along the center aisle toward the altar. They passed someone weeping in deep distress. Looking for the source of those sobs, he was astounded to see a group of women in deep mourning wailing and clasping one another. Their lamentations were reflected and amplified by the vaulted ceiling. He stared at them, thunderstruck. Of all the things he’d imagined for this day, he’d never expected to see people dissolved in tears over álvaro’s death. What were all these people doing here? Who were they? He found it incredible that funerals like this could still take place. On the rare occasions he’d attended funerals, those present were family members and no more than a couple of dozen friends and acquaintances of the departed. Most often the simple service was held at a funeral home before cremation. With no more ceremony than that.
What was all this? He silently cursed that region’s hidebound traditions, the unlettered rural preference for funerals at the manor, the servile respect Gri?án seemed to appreciate but Manuel found embarrassing. But at the same time, he realized that the presence of all those gathered here to share his grief made him feel less isolated, rejected, and offended.
From their first days together álvaro and he had been that sort of mutually self-sustaining couple who didn’t engage in much socializing. The lengthy periods of reclusion required for his writing and his preference to stay home after his promotional tours had led them in recent years to reduce their circle of acquaintances. There had never been very many. They had a few friends, of course, but he’d turned down Mei’s idea of announcing álvaro’s death to them. He’d found ridiculous the prospect of anyone coming and seeing him in the humiliation he so desperately wanted to escape; even worse was the thought of explaining to friends a situation he himself found impossible to understand. He advanced and found the pews packed with many men, eyes watery, clutching ironed handkerchiefs. Pained looks from sad eyes as bleary as those of old dogs were directed at the dark, brilliant coffin.
Struck by the sight of it, he abandoned the executor’s comforting touch and approached the casket, grateful that it was closed. Hypnotized by the brilliance of the polished wood and by the rise and fall of sounds of female lamentation, he reached out and brushed his fingers across its surface just as a murmur interrupted the eerie wailing and quiet sobbing. A whisper rippled through the church like a spreading plague. The family made its entrance.
He looked around and saw that only the first two rows were unoccupied. He took a seat on the right. The murmur suddenly died away. He turned to look and saw that the matriarch leaning on her son’s arm had halted. Dressed in full formal mourning, she was whispering something to Gri?án, who quickly came to Manuel and leaned over to relay the message of sharp reproof. “You can’t sit here; it’s reserved for the family.”