El Olivo
1932
Somewhere in Spain
The blue Citroën C4 was stopped by the fields. A clod of dust was still settling down when the driver, a tall man in his late fifties, stepped out of it and ran to open the passenger door. A girl leaped out of the car and took the man’s hand.
“Anita,” the man said, “this are our fields.”
“Are those the olive trees, abuelo?” she said, pointing at the silvery-green leaves.
“Yes. Say it in Spanish: olivo.”
“Olivo.” She didn’t hesitate.
“Good! I like hearing you speak Spanish.”
“Mum only lets me speak English.”
“I know,” he said.
“Are they going to take the trees away from us, abuelo?”
The man laughed.
“What? Who told you that?”
“I heard father talk to the managers. He said the Re…publican Govet was going to expo… expotiate properties. One of the managers asked if that meant taking the olivos away.”
“Well, we don’t know. It’s called expropriate, and yes, the new Republican Government has passed a law that allows them to do that.”
“Who will the… Government give the olivos to?”
“It depends, but possibly to the workers.”
“The workers? The ones who work for us?”
“Yes. They’d have their own trees.”
The girl scratched her chin. Just like her grandma used to.
“That seems right, I think.”
He laughed again.
“My Anita is a revolutionary! A Soviet!”
She settled her chin and looked at the trees.
“But the olivos are ours, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Who are they to take them from us, even to give them to the workers?”
“The Government. The rulers.”
“I’m not sure I like the Government.”
He roared in laguhter.
“Now you’re an anarchist!”
“What is that, abuelo? Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not laughing at you, Anita. I laugh with you. That was really good. I’ll explain to you when you’re a little older.”
“How much older?”
“A couple of years.”
He kneeled beside her.
“Anna,” he said, and she immediately paid attention. Her abuelo always called her Anita. Her given name was for solemn occasions. He pointed at the closest tree. “If I could, I’d keep this one.”
“Why?”
“There’s a legend that says the Romans planted this tree.”
“The Romans? From History class?”
“Yes.”
“Can trees live that long?”
“People say the olivos can. But my grandpa told me this very tree was here when I was your age. Maybe it’s not Roman, but it’s ancient.”
Anna stepped closer to the tree and caressed its gnarled trunk. She stared up, and the sun shone between the silvery-green leaves.
“Let’s go, Anita. Dinner time!”
1936
“Anna! Where’s your grandfather? Nobody’s seen him! We have to go now!”
“I think I now, mother! Go! I’ll catch up with you!”
“Anna!”
But Anna was already out of earshot. Dressed like a boy, dirty trousers and a simple felt cap over her short hair, Anna ran past the barn and to the garage. As she suspected, the gate was open, and the old C4 was gone.
She cursed, grabbed her goggles on the run, and jumped onto the motorcycle her abuelo had bought for her. She kicked the Puch 500 V alive, and rumbled away on a puff of smoke and dirt.
Anna stopped her motorcycle beside the C4. The car was parked exactly where she expected it to be.
She approached the ancient olive tree. His grandfather didn’t move or look back. She patted his shoulder. The man still didn’t move. He must have heard her arrive.
“Abuelo, come with me. The fascists are coming. We have to catch our steamer at Alicante.”
Already she was feeling her eyes burn. She didn’t need him to speak to know what was coming next.
“I’m not leaving, Anna.”
“Don’t say that! They’ll kill you!” Tears flowed freely down her face now.
“You don’t know that.”
“You cut a deal with the Republican Government. That will be enough for them.”
He took her face in his hands.
“Listen to me, Anna. Look at this land. It’s almost dreary, bleak, not green like your mother’s, yet it gives us us this,” he plucked a single olive, “and the golden oil. This is my land. My country. I gave it my life, my blood. I’m not leaving.”
Anna couldn’t speak, so she just nodded. Her tears drew streaks on her soot-dirty face.
“I’m an old man. I’ve lived my life. You have not. You take your motorcycle now and go with your mother to that island of hers, and live a long life in freedom.”
Anna nodded again. He leaned on the olive tree and spoke.
“Make me a promise, Anna. Promise me you’ll learn to speak Spanish.”
1955
Galway, Ireland
Galway had turned to be beautiful. There was green everywhere the year through, and the scent of the ocean permeated everything. Anna had never seen anything like that.
But it was also wet and cold. Anna missed the sun, that only filtered through the clouds now and then, and used to think she had had enough rain for a lifetime. And the cold entered her bones and threatened to never leave.
Yet today she braved the drizzle without even an umbrella, her masculine hat barely enough to protect her. She answered the priest’s final words automatically in chorus with the rest of the attendants, and crossed herself without thinking. She had learned back in Spain when she was a child.
She stared at the coffin that descended on ropes into the grave. There was a thud. Someone touched her arm, and she dropped her handful of wet soil. It smeared the cross on top of the lid.
“Goodbye, mother,” she whispered.
Anna looked up. A clump of cypresses stood in the graveyard by the church. There were no olive trees in Ireland.
1995
Spain
“Is everything alright, mom?”
“Yes,” Anna said. “It’s just… I cannot recognize anything. All of this… wasn’t here. Nothing. Nothing was here. It’s as if a city had just sprouted out of nowhere!”
“Ireland has changed a lot in all this time as well, mom! You couldn’t expect Spain to remain the same!”
“Don’t mock me, Sean. I can still spank you!”
Anna’s son laughed and drove on. He turned right and they took an avenue that ended in a park.
“They said it was there.”
Sean parked the Renault 5 and helped her mother out. Wiry, leaning on a cane, Anna stretched and stared ahead. The park had pines, elms and several other trees she didn’t recognize.
“In the center of the park.”
They walked hand in hand for a few minutes. Kids ran after footballs everywhere, pursued each other, or played in swings. Their parents sat on benches, talking loudly to each other as only Spaniards do. An old man read a newspaper sitting in a terrace, his coffee getting cold.
“There it is, mom.”
In the middle of an esplanade stood the old olive tree. A gentle breeze made its leaves sway. At the foot of the tree there was a small plynth with a plaque. They approached and Anna looked at it. She was already weeping.
“Can you read it, Sean, please?”
“It’s in Spanish. ‘Dedicated to the memory of Anton Larroca, shot by Franco’s troops under this olive tree in 1936'. Your grandfather?”
She nodded, and touched the venerable bark once again.
“Mi abuelo. El olivo.”
~~~~
This is my entry for this week’s Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Write About A Tree. The challenge this week was to write 1000 words featuring a tree. Any kind of story, any kind of tree, used however the writer pleases.
I decided, these days when my country, Spain, is in turmoil, to use our history. And here’s my story. I overshot by 230 words.
