Quince

by David Rees

  José and Cristina were not much involved in this. They spent the day working hard; Cristina whitewashing the old man’s kitchen, and José struggling with the overgrown garden. León Badajoz, so old now he could only walk with someone else to assist him, was grateful, but when José suggested he should leave the pueblo for good ― he ought to come and live with them in Zahara; he could be properly cared for ― the old man refused point blank. He had lived all his life in this house, he said, and he intended to die there. The city would kill him in a matter of weeks.

  José frowned. ‘He’s aged a lot this year.’ he said to Cristina.

  ‘He’s far too stubborn for his own good,’ she replied. ‘I suppose … we could arrange for a woman to come in and look after him.’

  ‘I’ve suggested that before, but he’ll have none of it.’

  ‘At least the neighbours keep an eye on him. Señora Rodriguez often cooks him his dinner.’

  ‘I offered her money. She was annoyed … outraged would be a better word.’

  ‘Pueblo life! It has its good points … it can be one big, extended family.’

  ‘The practical side of socialism.’

  Cristina laughed. ‘Or anarchism? You never stop thinking politics!’

  In the evening they milked Leon’s goat, then walked into the fields to inspect his strip of land. He owned an olive tree, which was flourishing and promised a good crop; but the vegetables he’d planted in the spring looked unhealthy ― he hadn’t had the strength to come out and water them, and though neighbours at times did this for him, it was, apparently, not frequent enough. ‘We had better do something about this tomorrow.’ José said.

  They strolled up to the remains of the Arab fort ― two ruined walls; nothing like the impressive tower at Zahara nor were the views as spellbinding. It was all that was left to prove that Rojo had once been an outpost of the Kingdom of Granada, ‘of the frontier.’

  ‘How peaceful it is,’ Cristina said.

  The distant bleating of goats and the tinkling of their bells did not disturb the silence of the fort, so far off was the sound. The sun had gone, but it was still light. A few clouds in the west flushed a delicate pink. The mountains glowed orange and fiery red, as if they were releasing the heat that had scorched them all day: they looked tired, aeons old.

  It was as old as Spain, and nothing would ever alter it.

  ‘Make love to me.’ José said.

  ‘Here? Out in the open?’

  He laughed. ‘We’ve done so before. Many times.’

  ‘We were younger.’

  ‘So what’s different now? Besides … who knows what opportunities there’ll be tomorrow?’

  ‘You mean the army might ban it?’

  They looked towards the city on its beetling mountain-top. ‘I wonder what’s happening up there,’ José said. They’d heard no news since morning, only rumour. Leon didn’t possess a wireless.

  ‘Nothing. General Araquistain is drinking rioja and looking forward to his dinner. Miguel’s already eating his, and complaining about the heat.’

  ‘Well… do you want to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They found the village, when they returned, in a state of great excitement. Everyone, it seemed, was out in the streets. News had come of the risings, successful and unsuccessful, in the Andalusian cities. All was quiet in Zahara; resistance had been negligible, but there were ominous reports of arrests. An unspecified number of people had been taken, not ― surprisingly ― to the police station but to the barracks. ‘Which means Miguel isn’t part of it,’ José said. ‘What does that signify?’ All persons who had held office under the Popular Front government had been dismissed from their posts, and would be ‘questioned.’

  ‘That includes you,’ Cristina said.

  José, grim-faced, did not answer.

  Rojo’s attention was diverted from these bits of news by the arrival after dark of a large force of armed men; not soldiers, but peasants from the surrounding villages. They were absurdly young ― their average age, José thought, was about twenty ― and they looked almost picturesque, like playhouse brigands. They were showing off to the village girls, and getting drunk in the bars. Their guns and ammunition had been stolen from the barracks in Jaén. Events in Morocco had been repeated in Andalucía, they said, and the Government would be too timid to give the people arms to defend themselves; hence the raid on the barracks at Jaén during the commotion when the army rebelled that morning. It was a brilliant idea, executed with skill and daring: their leader was a genius, they said. For months now he had been making them practise military manoeuvres, mock battles, guerrilla assaults, the quickest way to kill. He deplored church burning, however, which was why there was little or none in that part of Andalucía. In 1934 he had tried to kill General Franco ― he’d been a hair’s breadth away from success. If only it had worked! If only!

  ‘Who is he?’ José asked.

  ‘The Lynx.’

  ‘And who are you? I mean, what organization? And what do you plan to do with all this weaponry?’

  ‘Anarchist Youth Movement. And the Socialist Youth Movement. We’ve merged. That, too, was our leader’s idea. You want to know what we’re going to do with these guns? This is the dawn of freedom, comrade. The millenium has arrived! We’re going to retake Zahara! Are you with us?’

  ‘Of course.’ José said quickly. He wasn’t at all certain that a youthful anarchist’s wild idea of heaven on earth was any more palatable than General Araquistain’s facist notions, but the young man was carrying a machine-gun and looked as if he was itching to use it.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘José Badajoz.’ He felt annoyed at being obliged to say it. ‘I’m the Mayor of Zahara.’

  ‘Oh, yes! And I’m the King of Sweden. We don’t take very kindly to jokers, I can tell you. You look like a bourgeois to me. You dress like one, comrade. You know what we’re going to do to those fascist swine, the bourgeoisie? We’re going to stick every one of them up against a wall and shoot them! I think you’d better come and identify yourself to our leader. I guess he’ll have you shot.’

  José was led at gun-point to a bar down the street, which was packed with noisy brigands. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. In a corner, a group of young men were holding a committee meeting; they had maps, documents, a radio, rifles.

  This lying, middle-class pig says he’s the Mayor of Zahara.’ José was pushed roughly against a wall. ‘Can I shoot him?’

  Pedro Badajoz looked up from his map, and said, ‘He is the Mayor of Zahara.’ He stood, and kissed José. His smile was radiant. Tomorrow night we are going to take the city. By Monday morning you’ll be back in your office in the Casa del Pueblo!’ He turned to the crestfallen young man who wanted to shoot José. ‘Sebastian, I admire your zeal. You’re a good soldier. But cool down a bit! And you owe my father an apology. Don’t bother with words; buy him a drink. He likes a good rioja, San Ansensio … not just a glass. Get a whole bottle.’

  ‘Are you the Lynx?’ José asked.

  That’s me,’ Pedro said.

  ‘I’m overwhelmed … I don’t know what to say … Such chaos…’

  Cristina arrived. More embraces, and a few tears of relief.

  Sebastian reappeared with the wine, and said, ‘My profoundest apologies, comrade. I must learn to think first, and shoot afterwards.’

  ‘Get out, Sebastian,’ Pedro said.

  ‘Is the meeting closed?’ one of his lieutenants asked.

  ‘Yes. The army’s hold on the city isn’t strong … I’m sure they want to fan out and seize the nearby villages like this one, but they’ll be very busy tomorrow making sure Zahara is all theirs. They’ll have organized a few road-blocks, but they’ll be undermanned. No match for us ― and remember several more of our units are due to arrive here; Rojo is the meeting-place. Once we’re in the city … well, you all know what to do. There’s no moon tomorrow night. Silence, stealth, cunning … and when you shoot, you shoot t
o kill!’

  The lieutenants gathered up their maps and papers, and went to the bar.

  Pedro, eyes still shining, said to José and Cristina, ‘All my life I’ve felt I’ve somehow disappointed you. You’ve never said as much, but it’s so… You’ve always been good to me. Loved me. I love you, respect you. Now I have the opportunity to prove it!’

  ‘Pedro, this is nonsense!’ Cristina said. ‘You’ve never disappointed us!’

  ‘If I haven’t… then one day I will. For example… I’m sure now … no … it isn’t the time.’

  ‘If I’m mayor again by Monday morning,’ José said, ‘what kind of a city will I be governing?’

  Pedro grinned. ‘A revolutionary city! There’ll be a committee of councillors over which you’ll preside … we’ll nominate them together. The best men and women we know … experts on health, housing, communications, public works. Private property will be abolished. And money. The churches will be shut, used as warehouses. Men and women will have the same equal status. Marriage will be abolished. This is freedom!’

  ‘¡Dios mio!’ José said. ‘You sound like Robespierre.’

  ‘Where’s Pablo? And Stephen?’

  ‘At home. Miguel is protecting them.’

  ‘Miguel?’ Pedro looked worried.

  ‘If you defeat the army,’ Cristina said, ‘what will you do with the soldiers?’

  ‘Many of them will join us, I’m sure. I shouldn’t think the conscripts have any heart in obeying their orders. Those who resist… we’ll shoot them.’

  ‘¡Dios mio!’ José said again. ‘I can’t deal with this. Someone else had better be mayor. I resign.’

  ‘You can’t resign! You’re the most respected person in the city. Zahara needs you … I won’t allow it!’

  ‘Why don’t you choose yourself as mayor?’

  ‘Because I shall be on the committee. The Councillor for Justice.’

  ‘Tell me … when you were in Asturias, two years ago … did you really try to assassinate Franco?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He might be killed!’ Cristina said. Three a.m.; they were in bed, unable to sleep. ‘Or if this mad expedition fails, he could be executed! Why didn’t you stop him?’

  ‘What on earth could I do?’ José answered. ‘Our time has gone. Decent, humane men of the liberal centre … there’s no place for us. Power has gone to the extremes’

  Is it happening elsewhere?’

  It was, with astonishing speed; almost overnight the rebel cities became ‘Nationalist’ - quasi-fascist, repressive, and fanatically religious. Where the rebellion failed, power was usurped by the left: Republican cities became a series of almost self-governing societies, anarchist, communist, left-wing socialist, the elected government too feeble to stop the process.

  ‘The danger … violence … bloodshed! My son killing other women’s sons! I can’t believe it’s happening!’

  ‘It is,’ José said.

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Keep our heads down.’

  ‘We should try and send Stephen back to England. At once … if it’s still possible. Do you intend to become chairman of this crazy committee?’

  ‘I doubt if I’ll have any choice in the matter.’

  Miguel Goicoechea had problems too. He had thought his order to the police neither to prevent nor resist the rising was a prudent move, but it turned out to be disastrous. Every individual in the force had his own political convictions ― the majority were Republican, and felt that a rapid distribution of weapons to the people would defeat the army; a few, like Pérez, wanted to assist the soldiers. ‘We need to avoid ― at all costs ― unnecessary bloodshed,’ Miguel repeated, over and over again. But he was in a minority of one.

  When the rising started, Pérez found that he’d been sent to Grazalema on a fool’s errand. He hurried back to Zahara, walked into Miguel’s office, arrested him at gunpoint, and locked him in a cell. The chief of police was too astonished to utter much in the way of protest, but in the cell he fumed and shouted. No one came to release him ― the building was more or less deserted; Pérez and his supporters were out on the streets actively helping the army, while the left-wing sympathisers, apart from a courageous few such as Cuenca, had slipped away to their homes, ‘In order,’ said one, ‘to live to fight another day.’

  Miguel’s non-intervention policy had, at a stroke, caused the police force to disintegrate.

  Eventually the cell was opened by a squad of soldiers who took him off to the barracks, where he was interviewed by Araquistain. He was now loud in his protests. ‘I’ve served Zahara with honour and distinction for twenty-seven years!’ he yelled. ‘You won’t find a more loyal policeman in the whole of Andalucía!’

  ‘We’ll test your loyalty tomorrow.’ the general said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Araquistain ignored the question. ‘Till then, you’ll be locked up … here. As I told you before … you are with us or against us; there’s no middle road.’

  ‘I never said I was against you!’

  ‘If that is the case … where are your men? Why aren’t they helping us?’ Miguel did not answer. Tomorrow you can prove to us that you aren’t a renegade.’

  ‘Renegade? What are you talking about?’

  ‘We won’t treat you badly. I’ve sent someone to let your wife know what’s going on; she can bring you your dinner. You’d no doubt prefer that to army rations… Tell me, where is your friend, the mayor?’

  ‘Out of town.’

  ‘Very wise of him! But is it true?’

  ‘Yes. He went to Rojo de la Frontera this morning to visit his father. He goes there every other Saturdays ‘Who does that leave in the house?’

  The youngest son. And the English student ― a tourist.’

  ‘Well … I’ve no wish to provoke an international incident. We don’t want the British authorities to aid and abet the Republic.’

  ‘What is all this about?’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Miguel. Meanwhile … bon appétit, and buenos sueños!’

  Inez arrived with his dinner - a tomato salad, bread, escalope of veal and fried potatoes ― wrapped up in a basket. There were also grapes, and a bottle of valdepeñas. Miguel tucked in, while she scolded him as one would a naughty child. ‘Whatever will you do next? Here comes the army to liberate Spain ― the grand event you’ve been talking about for years ― and where does it find you? In prison. However did you land yourself in such a mess, you silly boy?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Miguel said, his mouth full of veal.

  They’ll let you out in the morning. The general was very polite to me… “How are you, Dona Inez?” he said. “I’m so sorry about this temporary inconvenience … I’m sure we can find a solution agreeable to both―” ‘

  ‘He said he was going to arrest people and kill them.’

  ‘He was joking, dear. Are you sure you heard him properly?’

  ‘Of course I heard him properly! I’m not a fool! What’s happening on the streets?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Miguel stared. ‘Nothing! What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said. Nothing. No disturbances of any kind. The army is out in strength … and most people are indoors listening to their radios.’

  Reassured by this, and the valdepeñas, Miguel said, as his wife was about to leave, that he’d see her tomorrow, probably at home. The loyalty test, whatever it was, he was sure he could pass with flying colours, particularly as the army did not seem to be inflicting unnecessary violence on the populace. His only worry was whether Araquistain would allow him to continue as police chief. Probably he would ― Pérez was such an obvious nincompoop. He slept soundly; a comfortable mattress had been put in his cell.

  FIVE

  There was a tremendous knocking on the front door as Stephen was, at last, falling asleep. He leaped out of bed and ran to open it; it would be Pablo, who’d presumably lost his keys. It was a squad of six soldiers. They pushed him
aside and began to search the house, methodically and carefully. They did not steal or smash anything ― it wasn’t an orgy of looting, or a hunt for papers. They wanted a man.

  Stephen, amazed, watched for some moments in silence. ‘What are you doing?’ he cried out eventually. ‘Why are you here?’

  The officer in charge, who was looking behind the curtains in the living room, said, ‘Where is the mayor?’

  ‘In Rojo. He went this morning … I’m the only person in the house.’

  ‘Inglés? Americano?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘Inglés, go back to England. While you still have time. The tourist season is over!’

  The soldiers, having drawn a blank, drifted out of the rooms and reassembled in the garden by the quince tree.

  ‘Have you seen the mayor’s son?’ Stephen asked. ‘Pablo. He’s disappeared.’

  ‘I know nothing about him.’ the officer replied.

  ‘But … something dreadful may have happened to him!’

  The officer shrugged his shoulders. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Oh. A boy. I don’t think he’d be of any interest to us.’

  Stephen, reassured a little by this comment, watched the soldiers depart, then went back to bed. He woke early, jolted from sleep by a nightmare. No Pablo. He got up, and sensed immediately that he was still alone in the house. He looked in every room. No one. He made himself some breakfast, and decided to go to the police station. Cuenca might have some news.

  As he crossed the square in front of the cathedral, he saw that the musician who usually sat on the steps playing a guitar, was, as on any day, sitting there, strumming. This man was not a stereotypical blind beggar as in a Picasso blue period painting, indeed not a Spaniard at all, but a young Japanese, a student from Nagasaki. Stephen had never spoken to him, though he had occasionally paused to listen to his music: it was good. He stopped now, and said, ‘You’re still here, then. Are you going to leave?’