Spain
George crouched, pushing himself into the corner. His heart was hammering, trying to escape from his chest. The voices in the street below had stopped moving, there were several men, more than four. A car idled, its engine popping and echoing in the square.
George was scared. If he was discovered then it really would be the end, an ignoble death. An unnamed corpse in an unmarked grave. Maybe torture first? Certainly there would be tormenting, a beating. He would be used for sport and then killed. He knew that.
Past decisions lined up in his mind. Now he wasn’t sure what he was doing here. He wasn’t really political, of course the fascists were bad but… he was young, and wanted to be an idealist. He wanted to be romantic, to do something meaningful. He wanted to live a life like he’d read about in books. George wanted to believe in believing.
It had only taken him three months to fall in love with this country. Lulled by the warm weather, inspired by the peoples’ passion. In this country the ground seemed to sigh at his touch. When he woke the hills stretched and yawned with the rising sun, as he lay down at night the soft sounds and smells of woodland curled around his sleeping body
This wasn’t just a taste of greener grass. Being from a middle class family he had been allowed the time and money to travel. He’d toured from Mexico to Canada. He’d attended art class in Paris. He had drunk in these experiences and grown as a man because of them, but returning home had never been in doubt until Spain. Spain consumed him; she put her hands on his chest and whispered in his ear. Spain kissed his eyelids and stroked the base of his spine. There were endless depths beyond this bloody civil war that he wanted to explore.
He was English though, perhaps he wasn’t a flag waving patriot but he was definitely English. England was where his friends and family were. Grey skies, wet ground and wool coats. He had history there. There were places where he grew up, where his parents grew up. He used to walk past one of his old schools on the way to work, the train to Leeds took him past the steel mill in which his grandfather had worked. There was a snug George-shaped hole in England.
George was scared. If he was discovered then it really would be the end, an ignoble death. An unnamed corpse in an unmarked grave. Maybe torture first? Certainly there would be tormenting, a beating. He would be used for sport and then killed. He knew that.
Past decisions lined up in his mind. Now he wasn’t sure what he was doing here. He wasn’t really political, of course the fascists were bad but… he was young, and wanted to be an idealist. He wanted to be romantic, to do something meaningful. He wanted to live a life like he’d read about in books. George wanted to believe in believing.
It had only taken him three months to fall in love with this country. Lulled by the warm weather, inspired by the peoples’ passion. In this country the ground seemed to sigh at his touch. When he woke the hills stretched and yawned with the rising sun, as he lay down at night the soft sounds and smells of woodland curled around his sleeping body
This wasn’t just a taste of greener grass. Being from a middle class family he had been allowed the time and money to travel. He’d toured from Mexico to Canada. He’d attended art class in Paris. He had drunk in these experiences and grown as a man because of them, but returning home had never been in doubt until Spain. Spain consumed him; she put her hands on his chest and whispered in his ear. Spain kissed his eyelids and stroked the base of his spine. There were endless depths beyond this bloody civil war that he wanted to explore.
He was English though, perhaps he wasn’t a flag waving patriot but he was definitely English. England was where his friends and family were. Grey skies, wet ground and wool coats. He had history there. There were places where he grew up, where his parents grew up. He used to walk past one of his old schools on the way to work, the train to Leeds took him past the steel mill in which his grandfather had worked. There was a snug George-shaped hole in England.
posted by Sookraj at 4:57 pm
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