Read Online The Return by Victoria Hislop - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Victoria Hislop
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological fiction, Historical, Family, British, War & Military, Spain, Families, British - Spain, Spain - History - Civil War; 1936-1939 - Social Aspects, Granada (Spain)
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shoulders.
‘We haven’t got many nights here and you should come out. Why on earth didn’t you?’
‘There are hundreds of reasons why I didn’t. I’m not good enough, for a start.’
‘That’s complete rubbish,’ said Maggie. ‘And even if you aren’t, you soon will be.’
With this decisive statement she switched off the light and, now naked, threw herself onto her bed.
Chapter Five
DESPITE HER NIGHT of snatched, unsatisfactory sleep, Sonia rose early the next morning.The airlessness of the room had left her with a throbbing head and she yearned to get out. She was hungry too.
Their dance lesson was not until the afternoon and since Maggie was clearly going to be comatose for a while, Sonia dressed quietly and crept out of the room, leaving her friend a note.
Turning right out of the hotel, she wandered up to the main street that ran like a spine through the centre of the city. She soon realised that Granada was impossible to get lost in, so simple was the topography of this small city. Distant, towards the south, was a high wall of mountains, eastwards the streets climbed towards the Alhambra, westwards the roads sloped down towards a stretch of lowland. Even if she found herself in the maze of narrow alleyways that snaked around the cathedral, it would not be long before the gradient, a glimpse of mountain or sight of that monumental building would tell her which way to turn. There was something liberating about this aimless meander. She could lose herself in these streets and yet never be fearful of being lost.
Every few turns brought Sonia to a new square. Many of them had grand, ornamental fountains, and all had cafés, each serving a handful of customers. One leafy, open space had four shops selling an almost identical range of tourist paraphernalia, comprising fans, dolls in flamenco costume and ashtrays emblazoned with bulls. Outside another was a forest of a dozen postcard carousels. It seemed there were a million images of Spain that people would buy. Sonia chose quickly: a generic image of a flamenco dancer.
By the time she had wandered the streets for an hour her head was clear. She was in the Plaza Bib Rambla and the flower market filled it with vibrancy on this rather colourless February day. It was nine thirty, and although the place still had the peace and quiet of a city out of season, a few more people were now wandering about. Sonia passed two Scandinavians with huge backpacks, chilly and slightly ridiculous in their optimistically chosen shorts, and a group of East Coast students being given a guided tour by a fellow American whose voice filled the otherwise peaceful space. There were several cafés to choose from but one of them particularly appealed. Its tables were just catching the first rays of sunshine that were slanting across the rooftops, and standing outside it was a barrel overflowing with geraniums that had survived a cool winter.
Purposefully, she strode towards the sunniest table and sat down. She hastily scribbled the postcard to her father and then began to read her guidebook. It seemed that the city had much more to offer than the famed Alhambra and its gardens.
In what seemed like a matter of moments after taking her order, the elderly waiter served her with a creamy café con leche . As he did so he looked over her shoulder. Her book was open at the page on Federico García Lorca, ‘the greatest of Spanish poets’, as it described him. Sonia had been reading how he had been arrested in Granada at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War.
‘He used to stay nearby, you know.’
The waiter’s words penetrated her concentration and she looked up. Sonia was surprised not just that he had looked at what she was reading, but by the deeply serious expression on his handsome, lined face.
‘Lorca?’
‘Yes, he and his friends used to meet not far from here.’
Sonia had once seen Yerma at the
‘We haven’t got many nights here and you should come out. Why on earth didn’t you?’
‘There are hundreds of reasons why I didn’t. I’m not good enough, for a start.’
‘That’s complete rubbish,’ said Maggie. ‘And even if you aren’t, you soon will be.’
With this decisive statement she switched off the light and, now naked, threw herself onto her bed.
Chapter Five
DESPITE HER NIGHT of snatched, unsatisfactory sleep, Sonia rose early the next morning.The airlessness of the room had left her with a throbbing head and she yearned to get out. She was hungry too.
Their dance lesson was not until the afternoon and since Maggie was clearly going to be comatose for a while, Sonia dressed quietly and crept out of the room, leaving her friend a note.
Turning right out of the hotel, she wandered up to the main street that ran like a spine through the centre of the city. She soon realised that Granada was impossible to get lost in, so simple was the topography of this small city. Distant, towards the south, was a high wall of mountains, eastwards the streets climbed towards the Alhambra, westwards the roads sloped down towards a stretch of lowland. Even if she found herself in the maze of narrow alleyways that snaked around the cathedral, it would not be long before the gradient, a glimpse of mountain or sight of that monumental building would tell her which way to turn. There was something liberating about this aimless meander. She could lose herself in these streets and yet never be fearful of being lost.
Every few turns brought Sonia to a new square. Many of them had grand, ornamental fountains, and all had cafés, each serving a handful of customers. One leafy, open space had four shops selling an almost identical range of tourist paraphernalia, comprising fans, dolls in flamenco costume and ashtrays emblazoned with bulls. Outside another was a forest of a dozen postcard carousels. It seemed there were a million images of Spain that people would buy. Sonia chose quickly: a generic image of a flamenco dancer.
By the time she had wandered the streets for an hour her head was clear. She was in the Plaza Bib Rambla and the flower market filled it with vibrancy on this rather colourless February day. It was nine thirty, and although the place still had the peace and quiet of a city out of season, a few more people were now wandering about. Sonia passed two Scandinavians with huge backpacks, chilly and slightly ridiculous in their optimistically chosen shorts, and a group of East Coast students being given a guided tour by a fellow American whose voice filled the otherwise peaceful space. There were several cafés to choose from but one of them particularly appealed. Its tables were just catching the first rays of sunshine that were slanting across the rooftops, and standing outside it was a barrel overflowing with geraniums that had survived a cool winter.
Purposefully, she strode towards the sunniest table and sat down. She hastily scribbled the postcard to her father and then began to read her guidebook. It seemed that the city had much more to offer than the famed Alhambra and its gardens.
In what seemed like a matter of moments after taking her order, the elderly waiter served her with a creamy café con leche . As he did so he looked over her shoulder. Her book was open at the page on Federico García Lorca, ‘the greatest of Spanish poets’, as it described him. Sonia had been reading how he had been arrested in Granada at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War.
‘He used to stay nearby, you know.’
The waiter’s words penetrated her concentration and she looked up. Sonia was surprised not just that he had looked at what she was reading, but by the deeply serious expression on his handsome, lined face.
‘Lorca?’
‘Yes, he and his friends used to meet not far from here.’
Sonia had once seen Yerma at the
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