The Day of La Tarte de Santiago
The hacienda was at the highpoint of a cliffside against the ocean, overlooking the glittering sea, its red-tiled roofs and limewash walls catching sunset rays. It had seemed abandoned, with rotting apples in overgrown orchards and drooping fences scattered across its hillside-- the perfect place for a starving vagabond like Manuel to find shelter.
In the slumping house, however, he had found signs of life: a basket filled with spools of wiry yarn, every surface dustless, and a spotless kitchen with abundant food. He wasted no time in filling his empty satchel with preserved apples, beets, and pickled fish. His heart thundered, ears perked for residents, yet he heard nothing as he gnawed on a radish with one greedy hand, fingers trembling as he groped through the kitchen wares. In a lonely cupboard he found something that stopped his breath-- almonds.
Manuel’s mind was full of glittering pesetas as he snatched the sack of almonds. He could feel the warmth of the bedsheets at the inn; he could taste the hot bread. He thanked the saints and ran quickly out.
***
Antía had been napping all afternoon when she awoke to a shuffling in her kitchen. Cursed rats, she thought, rubbing her eyes. She eased to the edge of her bed; urgency had been sapped by long years of life, and the heaviness of the day had made her reluctant to rise. Her bony feet slid into her slippers, and she pulled her shawl tight as she shuffled down the hall.
In the edges of her vision, Antía caught flutters of movement, and in the distant waves, heard laughter. Her sight was poor and hearing faint, so her mind filled in the gaps-- a running boy, a chuckling man, the chatter of women stitching baby clothes. A ragged cough.
Antía entered the kitchen and stood in silence for several minutes.
No rat could have unshelved all her vegetables, unjarred her apples, and left the door swinging idly on its groaning hinge. Carefully, she bent to pick up the toppled sacks of onions and swept oats off the floor. There was no dignity in wailing to the empty hillside, Antía thought.
That was, until she knelt to check the cupboard and saw her almonds were gone. Then, the cry in her bones made its way to her cheeks as she ran her fingers over her rosary.
“Today, of all days, Dios mío?”
***
Manuel sauntered down the path, eating sugar-crusted apples. Hours before, he had been fearing his death from hunger's corrosive pain-- now he might be sick.
These people will be fine-- they have such land, such wealth! His stomach churned. They will not miss some apples and onions.
He blamed his stuffed belly for his uneasiness.
Manuel tucked away the apples, hand brushing the rough sack of almonds. Perhaps he’d try a few, so he could boast he had tasted riches at least once in his troubled life.
He scooped a handful of almonds, the shells were serrated and gritty. Yet, he felt something else-- leathery and smooth. Manuel pulled out a thin book that had been nestled among the almonds.
***
Antía knelt in prayer by her cupboard for some time before she stood on shaky legs and lit a candle. She tottered to a cupboard to find flour-- even if there would be no tarta de Santiago, there would be cake tonight.
The first time her husband had purchased almonds, Antía had almost fainted at the cost. What foolishness!
“You are the best cook in Galicia,” he had declared, beaming, “How could I not bring home almonds, praying for a tarta de Santiago?’
“I don’t know how to make such a thing!” Antía snapped, cheeks flushed.
“I know you will find a way,” he said. “You are clever as you are talented.”
This was his way, cooling her temper with his flattery. It always worked. With a flick of her kitchen towel she devised her recipe. Cracking golden eggs and measuring crystal sugar, grinding the almonds to the finest flour, she baked with utmost care over a militantly-watched fire.
Soon, it was tarta de Santiago for birthdays, tarta de Santiago for the arrival of their son, Antonio, and tarta de Santiago for his wedding day. It took saving all year to afford the treat, but it was worth every peseta to see the crumbs on the ruddy face of her bright-eyed boy, begging for seconds.
“Tarta de Santiago is for joy,” her husband had said, “So it is for us.”
But as Antia reminisced, she realized there would be no tarta at all-- her butter had been stolen, too.
***
The twisting in Manuel’s belly worsened as he entered the village, as if every eye was turned to him like a needle against his skin. He gripped the book to his chest tightly. After wandering in guilt, his gaze landed on a monk, sitting against an abbey wall, breaking bread with a beggar.
There was a kindness in the monk’s eyes that compelled Manuel to kneel beside him.
“Brother, I cannot read,” he said, unsurely, “And I need your help.”
***
Antía sat by her feeble fire. All was silent besides distant waves and crackling embers.
Until, a knock on her door. Antía glanced at the fire poker, but shook her head, hobbling to unlatch the crooked door. There stood a gaunt young man, eyes red and clothes in tatters.
“Señora,” his voice quivered. “My name is Manuel, and I sinned greatly against you. I lost my parents in the same peste negra. Then, I lost my way.” He knelt, offering the almonds, apples, and diary. “I have heard about your son and husband, how you lost them— how today is Antonio’s birthday. I cannot steal any more from you.”
Antía stared at Manuel. He was about her son’s age, during the year of the plague. She fingered her rosary.
“Hijo pródigo,” she said finally. “Why don’t you come in to eat? I was just about to make a tarta de Santiago.”
