Ansu, Spain – 1989, two years before the dissolution of the Soviet Union

  The sound of the church bells ringing in the New Year only made the young girl more anxious. She didn’t have much time left to write her farewell letter. One way or another, she knew she would have to go to Huesca for quite a while, and the only thing that comforted her about Ramón’s absence was the thought of these letters—at least until the end of the Christmas holidays.Ramón was the youngest son of her father’s steward, Monsieur Mortel. She never imagined that all Frenchmen could have such a charming face—though of course, it was those big, dark eyes lined with Arabic kohl that he had inherited from his Eastern mother. That was what had first caught the girl’s eye the day they met. She always said, "That black oil cured him of his eye pain!"They had been meeting for a long time now in the vineyard behind the road. God knows what her father would do if he ever found out about her lover. Without a doubt, he’d send her away to care for her aunt in Huesca—perhaps for good. No one liked that uptight woman. She still didn’t know how she would survive the holidays without Ramón, stuck in Aunt Carlota’s house. Thankfully, her younger sister was still too little to abandon childish mischief and turn to eavesdropping. That gave her the perfect excuse to spend more time with Ramón—though she knew it wouldn’t last much longer.Could she truly marry Ramón one day, without her father's wrath, knowing he wanted one of the Party members as his son-in-law? Ramón claimed that soon he’d move to Madrid for work and rent a home for them both. If the civil unrest settled down, Madrid would be a city paved in gold!Or maybe it was just the kind of sweet talk young men used to win over their lovers’ hearts. Either way, just imagining it was enough to keep her in a good mood—for a while at least. It might even stop her from nagging poor Felis about her dreadful bacalao1. It was undeniable—the salsa she made was awful.She sighed deeply, rested her chin on her hand, and gazed out of her bedroom window at the half-finished stone church tower in the distance.She wished she had been born into a more modern family—one that at the very least would allow her to own a mobile phone! Then she wouldn’t have to worry about distance or write love letters like a girl from the 18th century.The sound of the church bells echoed in her ears again—or was it her mother’s voice this time? She perked up her ears, and as soon as she heard the creaking of the wooden stairs behind the bedroom door, she dropped the letters, covered them with a thick book, and stood up.At that very moment, the door flew open. Her mother entered with a deep frown on her pale face—a face that always reminded the village folk of people from Iceland or somewhere equally distant. Thank God she didn’t resemble her at all!The woman shot her a furious glare and said, with an icy tone:— Bianca, what are you doing? Do you want us to miss the train? The prayer service has already started!She glanced around the cluttered room with her gray eyes and added without missing a beat:— Dear Jesus! Tell me, where’s Nora?

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  Note:1 Bacalao: A traditional Spanish dish made with salted cod.