by Ben Pastor
The black berets drew closer, bobbing along the granite crags with the straw hat trailing several feet behind. One of the couriers waved. “Salud!”
Walton waited until the three drew closer to decide whether he’d take out the gun or not. After he recognized both couriers he relaxed. “Salud, Almagro.” Marypaz had joined him to watch, and although her presence annoyed him, he didn’t send her away.
The men negotiated the last hard footings of the climb.
“Hello, Felipe. We brought somebody to meet you.”
The stranger was thirtyish, lean-jawed. He wore city shoes and a pair of expensive trousers; the shirtsleeves rolled up on his forearms showed an abundance of dark body hair against his pale flesh. When Almagro was standing before him, Walton grabbed him by the wrist. “Who’s he?”
“Take it easy, Felipe. He’s harmless.”
The stranger remained awkwardly to one side. As no one made an effort to acknowledge him, he extended his right hand to Walton. “My name is Paco Soler. I’m from Teruel.”
Walton took the hand impulsively. You could tell a man’s character from a handshake, at least in America. Soler’s hand was sweaty but firm; Walton couldn’t glean much else from it other than that the weather was hot.
“Let me explain, Felipe.” Almagro took him aside while the other courier, Marroquí, threw an admiring look at Marypaz. “He was roaming around when the truck dropped us at the foot of the mountain, so we decided to bring him in.” Almagro grinned. He had a salesman’s smile, and Walton disliked him for it. “Says he’s looking for a friend of his. A poet, he says. See what you can make of him.” Almagro lowered his voice to a whisper, widening his grin as he said it. “Creo que es un maricón. Limp as a noodle. Anyhow, we brought him along with us.”
Soler had not moved from his place when Walton rejoined him. Blotting his forehead with a blue handkerchief, he seemed tired from the climb, but tried to smile. “I wasn’t really heading up here,” he began, “but your friends thought I should follow them. You might be able to help me. A friend of mine may have come this way, perhaps to visit San Martín de la Sierra. It’s a chapel somewhere around here.” When Soler crushed the handkerchief in his fists, Walton noticed how white and hairy they were. “He’s been gone longer than I thought. I’m worried. I’d like to go to San Martín, so I’d be grateful if you told me the way from here.”
Through the brim of his straw hat, the sun threw diminutive pocks of light onto Soler’s colourless face. Walton knew of him. When they’d last met in Valdecebro, Lorca had mentioned him. Still, Walton was leery. “What reason did your friend have to go to San Martín?”
“He didn’t say. We’re working on a new play, and he’s been researching the peasant art of the region. I understand there’s an old fresco in the chapel, and perhaps that’s what Federico wanted to see.” Soler clumsily replaced the handkerchief in the back pocket of his well-cut trousers. “He’s been gone since Monday night. As I said, I’m worried, and so is his family.”
“This is not exactly peaceful territory. How did you get here, and why did you come alone?”
“I got a lift to Libros, and then started to walk: I had to come alone. My friend is the poet García Lorca. He’s had trouble with the authorities before. He … was not safe in Teruel.”
TERUEL
Bora rode back to Teruel from the north-west, up the ramp along the brooding ramparts of the twin-steepled seminary, under the squat crusader arch of the Andaquilla Gate. There the flagstoned climb grew steeper, and he had to direct Pardo sideways so that he wouldn’t lose his footing. A madness of swallows clamoured overhead, and the streets were empty.
The address given him by Cziffra was on Calle Santiago. Arching above the alley that led in from the gate, the Mudejar tower of Our Saviour stood with its intricate brickwork, a lattice of jutting false arches inset with green ceramic discs. Bora rode past it and took a right turn. Pardo’s neck was running with sweat and he tried to keep to the shade, but there was no shade, only swallows, and the sun cutting straight down. Yet behind these lowered blinds, carved doors and window grids someone here knew about Lorca and Luisa’s husband. The sleepiness of the noon hour was as deceptive as the false horizons near Concud.
The address corresponded to a dingy barbershop with a curtain of linked tin chains hanging across the open doorway. However unlikely, it must be the place, because Bora didn’t know of any Spanish business that ran during holidays and the lunch hour. He tied Pardo in the shade of an overhang, slung the canvas bag across his shoulder and parted the chains to walk in. An odd mixture of odours – hair tonic and fried garlic – met him, along with the blink of an electric bulb slowly materializing out of the dimness. A barber’s chair and mirror emerged next, and on the end wall was an ugly set of orange drapes, past which a clatter of dishes was audible. The barber himself stepped out from behind the orange cloth. “Si?”
Aside from a full head of wavy bluish hair, Bora could have sworn he was facing Francisco Franco, pudgy, smiling and shifty-eyed. He advanced no theory as to whether this was his contact, or if someone else would bring him instructions in the next fifteen minutes. The vase might be a completely different colour on the other side. Bora glanced at his watch and inquired about a haircut.
The barber took a puzzled look at Bora’s army crop. “A cut? Forgive me, but a cut to what? You don’t need a cut.”
“Trim back and sides, then.”
Seeing that Bora gave no sign of parting with the canvas bag, the barber invited him to sit in the only chair. Bora laid the bag in his lap.
“How much shorter?”
“Shorter.”
“Más corto de esto, and I’ll have to shave it!”
“Then shave it.”
Just as the barber arranged a cloth over his shoulders, the tin chains across the door opened, letting in light and flies. Bora glanced over expectantly.
A tanned, fleshy man in a wrinkled coat and tie was looking in from the street. His hooded, round eyes drifted from the barber to Bora and back again. “How long before you’re free?” he asked the barber, and without waiting for an answer he added, “I’ll be back later,” and was gone. If he was the messenger, it was hardly a message. With an ear on the rattle of dishes coming from beyond the orange curtains, Bora settled in the chair.
Choosing from several pairs of scissors, the barber smiled at his reflection in the mirror. “We finally had some good rain, didn’t we?” More trivialities about the weather followed, even though Bora had indicated his disinterest early on by not answering the initial question.
Ahead of him, the mirror was bolted to the wall. Spidery stains dulled it at the corners, and on the right side two hand-tinted postcards sat between the wall and the mirror’s frameless edge. On one of them Bora recognized the square minaret of the great mosque in Marrakesh, limned against an improbable alizarin sky. The other was a blue-grey aerial view of St Peter’s Square. The sight of the Roman cathedral unexpectedly moved him. As I wrote in my diary last night, he thought, this is the reason I’m here. All ideologies aside, this is what Spain is – intramurum Christianitatis, a bulwark of Christendom for so many: the anti-Bolsheviks and the monarchists, the Italians spoiling for a fight after Libya, and us, young Germans carrying the shame of a lost war we took no part in. I still find it hard to comprehend how neatly this civil war serves my desire to redeem Germany, serve my country and allows me to break at least some rules. Damn, I never knew before how free you are in the face of death. I wish Colonel Serrano would ask me again why I am really here. It all sounded self-conscious in the face of Cziffra’s contempt about his mission in Spain.
The barber had been talking over the sound of the scissors snipping and sliding along the teeth of his comb when a Spanish army captain walked in, followed by a stout man in shirtsleeves. Bora paid close attention this time. The officer was one of the two artillery captains who had come “from General Dávila Arrondo”, the tall, pockmarked man who’d given his name as Mend
ez Roig. Despite the heat, he was faultlessly attired, down to his kid gloves and the spruce red tassel on his side cap. As for the stout man, he was sweating buckets despite the fluttering motion of a small paper fan. Despite the fact that they’d walked in together, it was soon obvious to Bora that they had nothing to do with each other.
The barber greeted them, “Señor capitán; Don Millares.”
“I didn’t expect you to be open today,” Roig remarked, taking a folded newspaper from under his arm. Exchanging a nod of acknowledgement with Bora, he went to sit in a varnished chair against the side wall, where he faced the mirror and, indirectly, Bora himself.
There is my contact. Roig removed his gloves and cap. Fair, thin-nosed, with nostrils that seemed to open only enough to grant the passage of air, he had an intelligent, intellectual mien. Bora thought that his mouth, downturned and giving him a slightly bitter expression, made him seem older than he was – thirty or so, in his judgement. He opened the newspaper and ostensibly began to read.
Millares had meanwhile sprawled in the armchair closest to the door. “God help us,” he moaned. “How hot it is.”
Bora ignored him. Keeping Cziffra’s bicolour vase in mind, he surmised from Roig’s dustless boots and lack of spurs that he was quartered in town, probably at the Comandancia Militar. Roig glanced up at Bora over the edge of his newspaper and looked away again, perhaps aware the German had been watching him. What is he going to say, and when?
“Lower your head, please,” the barber told him, razor in hand.
“Have you heard the latest?” Millares addressed the room from his armchair, flapping his fan. “They say that the Bank of France will not return the gold treasury to the Azaña ministry, because most Spaniards live in nationalist areas.”
“If only that was true,” Roig commented.
“They also say that General Franco may receive supreme military honours, of the kind only reserved for kings and such.”
Bora listened to the political gossip, alert for anything relevant to him. Roig didn’t participate in the conversation, so it was largely Millares’ monologue, occasionally interrupted by the barber’s emphatic yes or no. Then Roig put down the newspaper and looked at Bora in the mirror. A cool, probing, judging look. Singularly direct, it discriminated and evaluated but was neither friendly nor unfriendly. It promised nothing. Bora returned the stare at first, but when no exchange followed, he looked away. Maybe he’s keeping quiet because of the fat man. Perhaps he’ll leave and wait for me outside.
“What else do they say, Don Millares?” the barber asked, starting to shave around Bora’s ears.
The stout man rolled his eyes. “Not much. Locally, I hear that Antonio Cadena left for Alfambra four days ago and hasn’t returned.”
With a jerk, the barber pulled back the razor from Bora’s head. “Careful! If you move like that I’ll take a piece of your ear off!”
Bora could have kicked himself for reacting. Roig’s grey eyes rested on him for a moment, no more. Millares only repeated, “How hot it is”, and gave his useless fan a rest. The barber started shaving Bora’s temples. On his lap, around the chair, a dust-like residue of shaven dark hair wafted down. Moments later, Millares was walking heavily across the room and past the orange curtains, where he began in his slow voice to discuss with someone the right way to serve garlic soup.
Roig simply glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said. Folding the newspaper under his arm again, he stiffly left his chair. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” He walked outside. A tinkle of flimsy tin chains followed. More flies entered the shop.
Bora checked the time. It’s been seventeen minutes. He’s got tired of waiting, or thinks I’m not his contact because I didn’t make myself known. Forgetting he had the canvas bag in his lap, he surged from the barber’s chair, freeing his neck and shoulders from the cloth. He shoved money into the barber’s hand. “Keep the change.” Beyond the swinging metal chains, he made out Roig’s silhouette against the brightness of the street. As he watched, a small Fiat pulled up and the officer climbed into it. Suddenly there was no point in rushing out of the shop. Disappointed, Bora slung the canvas bag across his shoulder. Perhaps there was no message.
“May I?” the barber said, and standing on tiptoes finished brushing hair off his neck. Bora let him. Behind the curtains, Millares was still jabbering about soup. Flies had settled on the minaret and St Peter’s alike.
Bora thought he might as well try to get some answers, at least. “Who is this Cadena they talk about?” he asked.
The barber started sweeping Bora’s hair from the floor. “He was city mayor until three years ago, and he teaches at the school now. Married an Andalusian girl. They just had a second child. It’d be too bad if something happened to him. But that’s life, isn’t it?”
There was nothing judgemental in his words. If anything, there was a prudent lack of opinion. Still, the barber’s Spanish fatalism came across so clearly that Bora felt like it was a warning of personal danger, as if he’d walked to the brink of something without knowing and were being reminded of the risks of falling off. “Why, what should have happened to him?”
Leaning on the broom, the barber fixed his small, beady eyes on Bora’s dusty uniform. “God knows.” When the last of the clippings had been swept into a corner, he added pleasantly, “You wouldn’t by any chance need supplies? I don’t know where you quarter, and I’m not asking, mind you. But should you need supplies, my wife runs the general store next door. She can open up for you.”
The mention of supplies distracted Bora from his foreboding. He drew back from the brink, and life was trite again. He’d actually drawn up a list. “I do need toothpaste and some other things,” he said.
The barber stuck his head between the orange drapes. “Emilia, stop talking to Don Millares … there’s business to take care of!”
EL PALO DE LA VIRGEN
Soler removed his straw hat before accepting a shot of whisky and water. He swallowed his drink straight away, while Walton only rinsed his mouth with his. Brissot sat back from the table, staring at the flat tortoiseshell case from which Soler had just taken out cigarettes. Walton accepted a smoke, but Brissot said he preferred his pipe.
Soft-spoken, with a cleft chin, Soler looked younger than his thinning hair suggested.
“The other night,” he said, “Federico came by at about 8.15 or 8.20. I was speechless when I heard he was planning to travel to the sierra, but when working on a new play he always becomes obsessed with details. Otherwise, he never wanders off any further than his cousin’s house or the huerta of his old music teacher. They’re the only places where he feels safe.”
Walton had heard about the music teacher from Lorca, but gave nothing away. “How long did your friend stay at your house?” he asked.
“Just over an hour. I wanted him to spend the night; it was safer than walking the streets, even in a town as small as Teruel. He has enemies there.” Under Walton’s scrutiny, Soler looked for a place to snuff his cigarette. When Brissot pointed to the floor, he smothered the butt with the sole of his shoe. “Not only political enemies,” he specified. “People envious of his success, moral hypocrites from the upper classes. Federico doesn’t talk about it, but I worry for him.”
Brissot puffed on his pipe, and Walton had the impression that he was wondering when the news of Lorca’s death would be shared. “If you’re getting bored,” he told him in English, “you can wait outside.” Brissot took the pipe out of his mouth and stayed. Seeing Soler’s eyes wander uneasily to the door, where Maetzu briefly appeared with a marksman’s rifle in the crook of his arm, Walton resumed his questioning. “What happened next?”
Soler looked away from the door. “I assumed that he’d returned to his relatives’. It’d be unthinkable for him to head out of Teruel at that hour. There are checkpoints on the major roads, and even if you could manage to slip past them … Well, how would he reach the sierra? He had no hiking gear with him, just a port
folio of his papers.” Walton glanced at Brissot, and Brissot at Soler. Soler took out the blue handkerchief and wiped his neck through the open collar of his shirt. “A day later, his cousin Luisa Cadena phoned to ask if I knew where Federico was. I inquired at his teacher’s huerta, since he owns no telephone, but he hadn’t seen him either. Supposing he’d found his way into the mountains after all, I waited two more days to hear from him.” Soler let his shoulders slump, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “Luisa thinks he’s been arrested, but I know he’s dead.”
Again Brissot exchanged a glance with Walton, who then walked over to the door and leaned on the jamb in a watchful attitude. “What makes you think so?”
Soler wouldn’t raise his eyes. “I don’t think so. I know. For three days I’ve struggled with the godawful certainty that he’s been killed.” Steadily he planted his hands on the table, palms flat on the surface. The hairiness of his wrists drew a fine dark tangle against the weave of his cuffs. “He never spoke about any of you,” he continued, “and I don’t presume to inquire. These are difficult times, people make complicated choices. I won’t even ask if he planned to meet you at any point on his errand. All I wish to hear from you is whether he’s dead or alive. Surely, as anti-Fascists, you won’t withhold the information if you have any to give.”
Walton sucked all he could out of the cigarette and dropped it before it burned his lips. Shoulders against the door frame, he eyed the lilting dance of flies over the table. The sound of Marypaz’s laughter came from outside, where she’d gone to sit with the couriers by the fountain. “Unfortunately we have no information about Señor Lorca to give you or the family.” Walton used his shoulders to push himself away from the doorway as Brissot turned towards him. “We’ll accompany you to San Martín if you think it might be useful. If not, one of us will escort you back after dark.”
