Doña Alba of 147 de la Concha was a kind tyrant, beloved by all who passed her tiny, arched door. Though she had no balcony and everyone who lived above her walked through the courtyard- her only open space-she was paid for the intrusion with the information she gathered and the power she held in the residents’ lives. Its residents’ reputation and, in time, their likelihood of surviving the war and interminable occupation, were judged by that slice of air and the small open heart at its base.Īt 147 de la Concha, the housekeeper-who owned no part of the building but carried the keys and knew its history and divisions better than anyone-lived on the first floor. The interior-facing balconies were the only clean and airy place for those families who shared floors and staircases, who divided their rooms with each new generation.
In partitioned houses, the courtyard was even more important. Those days, I say, though the events of this story occurred long after the buildings had been divided into separate apartments and separate families, families who became, despite their different names, closer than kin. Only a few square meters at the bottom, this careful extraction allowed light and air to filter through every level. I n those days, the houses were built with courtyards slicing out their centers.
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