4th August, early morning; All is not well

Manuela laughed.  "There, Martita.  Is he a good slave now?"

Martita, her face already sticky, took another bite of her fig and nodded.

"Any other slave duties you want him to do?"

Martita narrowed her eyes, thinking, then shook her head. Maybe later, when Maria got back and gave her chores to do.

Paol started at the sound of the old woman's voice. He only caught her last words, but her presence and expression were more than clear enough. What a priceless idiot. What had he been thinking? "It--it were my fault," he told her, pointing to himself as though that would somehow make her understand.

*

But-- Martita felt tears well up in her eyes at the rebuke. She hadn't meant to. She hadn't even said anything to him. And Manuela had said it was alright! The Frenchman had tricked them, she thought, frowning resentfully at Paolo.

"Auntie," Manuela protested gently, "It was nothing.  I just wanted..."  She just wanted Martita not to be afraid.  Her aunt would no doubt say that Martita should be afraid, and then the girl probably would be afraid after hearing such a pronouncement.  But would that fear really help a little child at all?  There would be plenty of time for fear when she grew older.  With a bit of defiance, Manuela said "I just wanted some figs, for me and Martita.  Doña Pollonia has already picked all the ripe ones on lower branches and we couldn't reach."


The mention of their neighbor and the constant conflict of the shared fig tree was enough to distract her aunt for the moment, setting her off on one of her rants. No doubt there would be a lecture later on the evils of Frenchmen, and men in general for that matter, but at least Martita would be spared. And it would be less embarrassing for herself.

Paol stood still as stone, his gaze fixed on the ground, waiting for her to stop. He could only assume the invective was directed at him, which was fair enough; at least she didn't seem to be angry at Manuela.

When she had finished airing her complaints, the old woman sighed and gazed at the tall Frenchman. "Well, we may as well get him to pick some more, before anyone else gets them. Ha, they will have to borrow a ladder!  Go on then, Frenchman. Pick the highest figs. I'll get a basket. Martita, you can take some home to your papa."  

She turned to go back into the house for the basket, and Manuela gave the Frenchman a somewhat apologetic smile. "Sorry. Slave."

He looked up, surprise momentarily overcoming his better judgement, and smiled back at her. Then he caught himself and dropped his gaze again. Don't be stupid. Though he supposed it was a little late for that.

The old woman returned with a basket which she handed to Manuela.  "There.  And when you are finished, come back inside and clean the kitchen floor.  No dawdling.  That goes for you too, Señor Frenchman."


Manuela accepted the basket wordlessly and gestured for Paol to follow her back to the fig tree, smirking once her aunt was gone.  "More figs, please, Paolo."

The branches rustled as he tugged several figs free. Placing them in her basket, he glanced deliberately back at the house and then at Manuela, his expression somewhere between concern and confusion. "I don't understand," he said, reaching up to pluck another fruit. He thought that he had, up until the point where the old woman had brought out the basket and left them alone again.

She listened intently.  "You don't understand?"  How to explain?  She was not sure she understood it all herself.  But she shrugged.  "It's just my aunt.  And the woman who lives over there, my aunt sometimes argues with her over the fig tree."  She pointed at the figs in her basket.  Of course that was not all of it, but that was the simpler part to explain.  "And... Martita has a French officer at her house who is very angry and shouts.  Martita's French officer yells, aaagh!  At that house over there."

Paol watched her closely, concentrating on the sounds of the words, but the slow stream of Spanish was  mostly lost on him. Something to do with the two houses and the fig tree, he gathered from her gestures. And a French officer who shouted at the little girl? He frowned. "He does not hurt her, does he? The officer, he doesn't..." His left arm was hanging uselessly at his side, but he struck the palm of that hand with his fist, "He does not hurt Martita?"

"Oh!  No, he hasn't hit Martita."  She looked around for the little girl who was now hiding away, moping but waiting for her promised figs.  "Martita, the officer hasn't hurt you, has he?  Or Maria?  Or your father?  He's just scary?"

There was a pause, and then Martita emerged from behind a shrub. "No. He just shouts. He is very angry. Grrr—" she made a face and inexplicably mimicked claws with her hands. "Very angry. Very loud."
 
*
Despite the seriousness of the matter, Paol had to hide a smile at Martita's grimaces. "Is it a tiger or a French officer in the house?" he asked Manuela softly.

Manuela laughed again.  "Yes, the officer is a tiger."  She lowered her voice and looked around to make sure no one else was listening.  "He is in love with Maria, Martita's sister.  Martita, little.  Maria, like me.  The officer wants Maria, and Maria says no.  So the officer says grrr!"  She gave him a helpless shrug.

Paol's brows drew together and he frowned again. He thought he understood; it was a common enough tale, to be sure, but no less unfortunate for that. He glanced at Martita and then at the house, as if half expecting to hear the officer roaring inside, then back at Manuela. "I'm sorry."
 
*
 
"What are you talking about?" Martita wanted to know, "Why are you talking to the Frenchman? Tia Carla said no talking."

"Tia Carla doesn't know he's our slave," Manuela said with a gentle smile.  "Nobody does, so we have to keep it our secret.  But it's all right to talk to slaves.  How else would we give them orders?"

Martita frowned thoughtfully, trying without success to find a way around the older girl's logic. She did like the idea of having a secret. "Do we have to tell Maria?"

"No, not even Maria.  She might try to take him to be her own slave, and keep him all to herself.  Or give him so many chores that he doesn't have time to do work for us."

Martita grinned, pleased that the older girl wanted to have a secret just between the two of them. She crept closer, standing on tiptoe to seen into the basket, then casting a hopeful glance at Manuela.

"You want to take some figs?  Why don't you run and fetch a basket."

Martita scampered off and several moment's later the sound of a man's voice, raised in a brief flare of invective reached them. Paol stiffened, but in another moment Martita appeared with her basket and a sly grin on her face.

"He is awake. El tigre," she told Manuela. "He asks where Maria is and I tell him 'go tu ell'," she pronounced the foreign words carefully, then smirked. "He did not like that."

Manuela placed her own basket on the ground and took Martita's.  "Don't make him angry on purpose!  What if he decides to get up and chase you?"