by David Rees
‘You’ve heard the news’.’ Araquistain said. Miguel nodded. ‘It’s merely the prologue. There will be military risings all over the country today and tomorrow; by Monday morning the army will be in control everywhere. General Sanjurjo is flying to Burgos to form a government. There will be a new Spain, a decent, civilized Spain!’
‘Good,’ Miguel said. ‘Good I’m with you!’
(General Sanjurjo, in exile in Portugal, did not arrive in Burgos. He insisted on taking with him on his flight from Lisbon a vast amount of luggage ― the uniforms he considered necessary to his role as Head of State. The weight of this alarmed the pilot, who told him that take-off would be difficult: the plane was parked in a small field. The general refused to abandon the uniforms; the consequence of this was the plane crashed into some trees. The pilot survived, but Sanjurjo was burned to death.)
Araquistain looked at his watch. ‘This afternoon,’ he said, ‘I intend to take control of the city. It’s the best time; half the populace will be at the bull-ring, so they won’t know what’s going on. Are you with me, or against me?’
‘With you,’ Miguel repeated.
‘The police force … how do they stand?’
Miguel scratched his head. ‘I should think … for the most part … they’re loyal to the Republic. The Government pays their salaries! But I doubt that many would fight, if your take-over is a success.’
‘It will be. What I want you to do this morning is to make sure that those men who you feel are against us are not given any arms. But distribute weapons and ammunition to those who support us.’
Miguel stirred his coffee. ‘I hope very little use will be made of weapons,’ he said.
‘Oh, naturally. We shall be as bloodless as is humanly possible! I don’t want to kill innocent men, women and children. Of course, if there’s resistance ― if we’re attacked ― we’ll defend ourselves.’
‘That seems very reasonable.’
Araquistain lit yet another cigarette. ‘Once we’ve established our authority, there’ll be a certain amount of … cleaning up.’
‘What does that involve?’
‘In the new Spain there’ll be no riff-raff ― socialists, anarchists, trade unionists, godless atheists.’
‘What do you intend to do with them?’
‘Arrest them.’
‘And?’
The general drew his forefinger across his throat.
‘I see,’ Miguel said. ‘That sounds as if … you’re ordering the execution of … ofhundreds of people!’
This city has a socialist mayor. A socialist council. It supported the Popular Front in the February elections. We don’t want a civil war, do we? A little terror is needed to bring things to heel. To prevent bloodshed.’
‘I’ve run Zahara for years without a shot being fired!’ Miguel paused, then said, almost pathetically, ‘I have an unblemished record!’
‘You are either with us or against us. There’s no middle road.’
‘I need time to think about it.’
The general stared at him, alarmed. Perhaps he had made a mistake, opening up so confidentially, revealing plans. But he had been sure of the police chiefs right-wing credentials. True, Don Miguel was a friend of Mayor Badajoz and that simpleton of a bishop ― Tomás Guzmán would have to be replaced, sent off to a monastery or something; a cleric with balls was needed, one who could thump the pulpit and invoke the fear of God and the army. But Don Miguel had often said, in public, that a strong, traditionalist government was Spain’s only hope, that democracy was a sham, that anarchists ought to be shot, and so on. Now he was proving to be unexpectedly lily-livered! ‘You don’t have time to think about it,’ Araquistain said. ‘It’s only fair to tell you … that if you don’t co-operate … you’ll be arrested too,’ He pulled his pistol out of its holster. ‘And shot.’
Miguel was annoyed. Even a mental picture of his wife and daughter weeping over his dead body didn’t curb his irritation. No one, simply no one, had threatened him since … since he was a kid! Don Miguel Goicoechea Cañal, Chief of Police! ‘I will let you know my decision in due course.’ he said coldly, and stood up to leave.
‘You will phone me in half an hour’s time.’
‘Very well.’
When he had gone, Araquistain lit a cigarette and shrugged his shoulders. The police chief’s vacillation made no difference, he decided. The deputy, the bad-tempered man with high blood pressure, was already in the general’s confidence. Pérez could lock Goicoechea in a cell and take over the force himself. He left the café to go and look for him.
Miguel, however, had foreseen this. He went straight from the Plaza San Juan to the police station, told Pérez to set out at once for Grazalema with a posse of men (whom Miguel also didn’t trust.) Anarchists, he said, were on the rampage up there, looting, killing and burning. The church was in flames. The local policeman had just telephoned for help. Pérez believed him; it was all too probable. He made a hasty exit from the city with three cars full of armed men.
Miguel then hurried to the Casa Badajoz; a phone call, he decided, would not be safe: you didn’t know who might be listening in. José, he knew, was at Rojo, but he must be made to stay there, for a while at least. Cristina, not particularly astonished by what he told her, said she would go there herself, and take Pablo and Stephen. ‘Not that there’s any room in that tiny house for all of us,’ she said.
‘Didn’t they say they were going to the bull-ring?’ Miguel asked.
‘Yes. But in the circumstances…’
They’ll be perfectly all right in the plaza de toros.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I’m sure of it. But they shouldn’t wander about the city afterwards; they must come straight back here. Where are they now?’
‘Asleep.’
‘How nice to be so young and innocent! I’ll tell you what; I’ll get one of my men to walk them home after the bullfight… Cuenca … I trust him totally.’
That’s good of you, Miguel.’ She stared at him, an anxious look in her eyes. ‘What do you think is going to happen?’
‘Nothing very much. Another Sanjurjo affair, I imagine. However … just in case there’s any bother …it’s best the boys do stay here. An empty house … it might be thought you’d all fled for some reason. Soldiers might come to Rojo searching for you. With Pablo and Stephen expecting you back … no one will come.’
Cristina nodded. ‘It makes sense. And what are you going to do, Miguel?’ She smiled. ‘Join the new Spain?’
I’ll wait and see. If it’s all very peaceful … well, I shan’t do much. Congratulate the general, pay my respects to the new mayor and offer my condolences to José. But if it turns out to be a blood-bath, I’ll order my men to resist to the utmost of their ability!’
FOUR
A bullfight was just about as revolting a spectacle as Stephen had imagined it would be. Fight, to start with, was a misnomer; ritual slaughter would be more apt. He wondered why he had agreed to go ― part of the Spanish experience, he guessed, and it was Pablo’s treat; it would have been awkward to refuse. Not only was it sickening ― it was a bore. After the first bull had been killed, there was nothing new to see: just five more of the animals suffering the same torture and death. And it was terribly hot ― stifling ― in the arena. They did not have tickets for the expensive seats in the shade; they had to endure the sun. Normally Stephen liked being sun-roasted. His skin didn’t burn (he was, after six weeks in Spain, the colour of ripe wheat) and he felt he could bear with equanimity any punishment the sun might inflict. But that afternoon he thought he would faint. Perhaps the nauseating spectacle he was witnessing contributed to such feelings.
There was no matching of equal talents: the bulls always lost. Despite their strength and persistence, they were stupid beasts. Their opponents were not stupid ― the toreadors never put themselves in a situation of real danger, just flirted with it, skipping sideways with great nimbleness whenever a bull’s horn
came too close. The bull never learned from its mistakes. It invariably, monotonously, charged at the wrong thing the red cloth flicked by the toreador. Never at the man. Go for his balls, Stephen said to himself willing the bull to use a little intelligence; go tor his balls! It would have pleased him to see those swaggering examples of sham maleness in their ridiculous, comic opera costumes impaled on a horn. Or would it? His emotions, he supposed, would have transferred themselves instantly from the agony of the beast to the agony of the man.
He felt the bull’s rage, its determination not to give up, even when in great pain from the banderillas piercing its neck; felt particularly the saddest moment of all ― when it did give up, when it slowed and deliberately seemed to invite death. The ritual reminded him of human relationships in which people tore each other to bits, one partner doggedly attacking the wrong thing, the other skilfully dancing away from every clout, as a fish could tease a fisherman when it realised the fly was on a hook. Or Spain itself. Both bull and toreador were Spain: for much of its history it had tormented itself, energetically destroyed itself as now in Morocco ― he had heard the news, when he finally got out of bed that morning. Tomás was right: it was not a civilized country. Blood, murder, death, as in the churches ― the statues of martyrs, the crucifixions. A congregation at Mass, spectators in the arena: the same.
Pablo, of course, was enjoying it; for him it was a normal weekend pastime. He pointed out to Stephen, at length, the various qualities, or lack of them, of each bull, and the skills and reputations of each toreador. Stephen nodded, said ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ in what he hoped were the right places, and attempted to look as if he was perfectly happy. He didn’t succeed. Pablo said, eventually, ‘You’re not liking it much, are you?’
‘No, not really.’ Stephen replied, glad of the chance to voice his true feelings.
Pablo wanted to express what it meant to him, to the crowd in general, but he didn’t have the words. He couldn’t excuse or explain, because he didn’t know why he enjoyed it.
As they were leaving, shuffling along with the hordes of people pressing towards the exits, a policeman came up to them, and said, ‘I’m Civil Guard Cuenca. Don Miguel has told me to walk home with you.’
‘Why?’ Pablo asked.
‘There’s been … a disturbance.’ Cuenca, who was young, about Pedro’s age, looked frightened. He was touching his holster.
‘What sort of a disturbance?’
‘The army has taken over the city.’
‘What!’
‘Yes. It isn’t only Morocco now. All day there have been risings in Andalucía. Just Andalucía - nowhere else in Spain.’
‘With what result?’ Stephen asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What are the police in Zahara doing about it?’
‘Nothing. Don Miguel has told us to do nothing to stop the soldiers, and nothing to help them. He will give us further orders this evening.’
‘May God fuck and shit on the army,’ Pablo said. He gripped Stephen’s hand. Stephen felt a profound sense of shock. An uncomfortable, lurching, slithering sensation. Professor Potts had been right. But he also experienced a curious feeling of excitement: he was here when history was being made.
‘Your mother and father,’ Cuenca said to Pablo, ‘are at Rojo, I’m told. They’ll be safe. Nothing is happening in the countryside ― I’m sure of that.’
‘Why shouldn’t they be safe here?’ Pablo ― innocent, ignorant ― asked.
Cuenca did not reply.
Most of the spectators in the plaza de toros were unaware of events until they emerged into the square outside. Their shock came then. An impressive show of military force greeted them: armed soldiers, fingers on the trigger. A captain yelled through a megaphone: ‘Zahara is in our hands. We have occupied all public buildings. Our victory has been achieved without a shot being fired, and we do not want to fire a shot now. Go quietly to your homes and stay there. Resistance is useless, ¡Arriba España!’
‘Including your father’s office, I suppose.’ Stephen murmured.
Some of the crowd gasped; some babbled with excitement, and a few replied enthusiastically ‘¡Arriba España!’ Most were dumbfounded. But everyone obeyed: it would have been foolish not to.
The streets were quite out of the ordinary. Nobody strolling, looking, chatting, quarrelling, no children playing; plenty of people, yes, but they hurried purposefully in every direction: they wanted to get home, to safety, to count numbers, to make sure no one was missing. The bars, as usual, were packed, were more than usually packed, but not with drinkers idly gossiping. The patrons were all silent, listening to the radio. You could tell which cities had been seized by the rebels, and which had rallied to the Government, by the station the radio was tuned to. Bit by bit, Stephen and Pablo learned the whole story by pausing a moment or two outside each bar they passed, despite Cuenca telling them any delay could be dangerous. Seville ― it was unbelievable! Red Seville! ― had fallen, despite fierce resistance. So had Cordoba, Jerez, Cadiz, and Algeciras. In Granada it was impossible to know which side was winning. In Jaén, Huelva, and Málaga the rebellion had failed ― in these cities the workers and the police had attacked the soldiers with arms stolen from the barracks; in Málaga many soldiers had deserted, and the company commander had been lynched.
‘Why aren’t we doing the same thing here?’ Pablo whispered.
The Government had sent aircraft to bomb the rebels in Morocco. ‘People of Spain, keep tuned in!’ one loyalist station demanded. ‘Do not turn your radios off! Rumours are being circulated by traitors. Keep tuned in. Seville is once again in our hands. The rising has been crushed everywhere.’ But it was obvious that this was not so; people could see for themselves that it wasn’t the case in Zahara, and there was also the voice of Radio Seville to prove that that city had not reverted to the Republic. A curious voice that sounded a bit drunk, and was wild in its message. Spain had been saved, it bawled; the rabble who resisted would be shot like dogs; ‘Tonight I shall take sherry and tomorrow I shall take Málaga! We have Doña Manolita ― an insulting reference to the President of the Republic ― ‘by the short and curlies. We will shoot the old queer! I’d like to tell my wife, who’s in France, that I’m thinking of her. I hope she’s listening. ¡Arriba España!’
People looked at each other, amazed. One or two even laughed. The voice was that of Gonzalo Queipo de Llano y Serra, the general who, it emerged later, had captured Seville for the rebels almost single-handed. He broadcast every night after this, and was nicknamed the Radio General. All Spain ― Nationalist or Republican ― tuned in to listen to him; it was wonderful entertainment frequently obscene, always grotesque, and sometimes blood-curdling. Radio Barcelona (in Republican control) often accused him of being stewed to the eyebrows. ‘And why not?’ he roared, over the air-waves. ‘Why shouldn’t a real man enjoy the excellent quality of the wine and the women of Seville?’
‘The world’s gone mad.’ Stephen said.
‘I shan’t tell you again,’ Cuenca answered impatiently. ‘Hurry!’
‘Where’s Pablo?’
A crowd of people had stopped outside fee Café de los Molinos to listen to Queipo’s ridiculous harangue; the proprietor had turned his radio up full blast so it could be heard in the street. The crowd had made a little corridor to let a patrol of soldiers pass through; Stephen remembered Pablo stepping back with others to allow this to happen. He and Cuenca had stepped the other way; momentarily Pablo was separated from them. When the soldiers had gone, Pablo was not there.
Bewildered, Stephen and Cuenca looked in shop, in cafés, down a lane nearby. No sign.
‘You go on,’ Cuenca said. ‘Go straight home. I’ll look for him.’
Stephen did as he was told. The Casa Badajo was empty ― he’d hoped Pablo had decided to rush back for some reason and would be waiting there for him. It was the first time in the six weeks he had been in Zahara that he’d found himself alone in the house. He felt lost.
He’d thought during the bullfight, that as soon as they got home Pablo would want to take advantage of his parents’ absence and have sex ― he’d not been looking forward to that; he was tired of being a hole for Pablo to deposit his sperm. Now he wished they were in bed, doing it: comfort, safety.
He phoned his father, and was surprised to get through. The soldiers, it seemed, had decided not to interfere with the telephone system. Eddie Faith was very alarmed by Stephen’s news and urged him to leave Spain at once. ‘I will,’ Stephen said, ‘if things get worse. But… I can’t just run off now. It would be unfair to the Badajozes ― rude and cowardly.’
He cooked dinner for himself, listened to the radio, and tried to read. At ten o’clock he heard the rumble of distant gunfire, five minutes of it, then silence, except for the chirp of cicadas. He rang Tomás Guzmán and Miguel Goicoechea, but they did not reply. Then he called the police station, but nobody there had news of Pablo’s whereabouts.
He went to bed at midnight. He couldn’t sleep: he was now desperately worried by Pablo’s disappearance, and very frustrated that he couldn’t do anything at all about it, couldn’t think of any possible way of finding him.
José‘s reaction, when Cristina told him of a possible military uprising in Zahara, was to say he should return at once; It’s my duty.’ he said, several times. He was anxious, too, for Pablo and Stephen, but she reassured him that they had Miguel’s protection. They were in no danger, she said, but he ― he could be committing suicide. So he did not return.
Rojo de la Frontera was full of agitation and rumour. The army revolt in Morocco caused people to check the few guns the village possessed to see that they worked; knives were sharpened, and sandbags were filled. Anarchist opinions were in the majority in Rojo ― most of the peasants belonged to the anarchist trade union ― and those who were not were socialists. Rivalries and feuds between these two organizations were temporarily forgotten in a desire to defend the pueblo against ‘fascists,’ which was how the villagers saw the army.
