Quince

by David Rees

‘I’ve nowhere to go right now.’ the man said.

  ‘What will you do?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. Everyone seemed to be making this gesture, Stephen thought: as if to say ― nothing is my responsibility. ‘I’ll return to Salamanca at the beginning of the autumn,’ the guitarist said, ‘and get on with my studies. I’m reading for a degree in Chemistry.’

  ‘Will that be possible?’

  ‘Why not? I shouldn’t think the army wants to close the railways. Or the universities.’

  ‘You haven’t been told to leave Spain?’

  ‘No. Things are better now, since the soldiers took over. My takings have gone up.’

  It was true. There was considerably more money in his guitar case than usual. ‘Play something for me.’ Stephen said, and threw some coins.

  The Japanese obliged with Asturias by Albéniz. All that was most characteristic of Spain in this piece, in Stephen’s opinion: hot nights, feet stamping in the distance, excitement, repressed violence ― and a grave, sweet melancholy; a sort of self-pitying sadness.

  When it ended, the guitarist looked up and said, ‘The Spanish cliché, isn’t it? But it’s still good, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Something else? The Villa-Lobos first prelude? it will cost you, naturally.’

  ‘Another time.’

  The police station was guarded by soldiers, but they did not prevent him from going inside. Luck was with him: Cuenca was alone, at the desk ― his expression, a worried frown, changed to astonishment when he saw Stephen, then back to worry again. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, in a voice not much above a whisper.

  Stephen, taking his cue from the whisper, also spoke in a low voice. ‘Where’s Pablo?’

  ‘He hasn’t come home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know nothing.’ The officer who’d searched the house had used the same words. Cuenca tapped a pencil against his teeth. ‘The most awful things … people denouncing each other; it’s incredible! Somebody I was at school with, a socialist … he’s gone into hiding. Men he played football with as a kid, got up to pranks with, chased girls with, now want to murder him! As if he was a wild beast! It’s amazing! Don Miguel is locked up in the barracks-‘

  ‘Miguel!’

  ‘He wouldn’t say yes to the army; he wouldn’t say no. Pérez is the new boss. What’s going on in that barracks …it’s appalling! Men being shot—’

  ‘Shot!’

  ‘Haven’t you seen the bodies in the gutters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I fear for Miguel’s life,’ Cuenca said.

  ‘You don’t think … it isn’t possible… Pablo could be in the barracks?’

  ‘Anything is possible! Particularly anything you’d have thought yesterday was quite unthinkable! He could be there… you could ask. If I get word of him I’ll come straight around to the house. And Stephen … you must consider your own position. Leave … leave Spain while there’s still time!’

  Thoroughly alarmed, he hurried to the barracks. There were no corpses in the gutters, none that he could see. Might Cuenca be exaggerating? The barracks were heavily guarded, and he was asked at gun-point what his business was. He explained. He was frisked, then allowed inside. A soldier directed him to a room where a large crowd of anxious men and women were waiting for news of friends and relatives ― an officer behind a desk had a list of those who were detained. The fragments of whispered conversations were terrifying: ‘They came in the night and dragged her out of bed.’ Her! ‘They smashed him with their rifles until his face was pulp. They made his mother and his three small children watch!’

  He asked if Pablo Badajoz was on the list. The officer read it through, slowly and carefully. It ran to several pages. Half-way down a page, he looked up and said, ‘Not here.’

  Outside in the street Stephen said to himself: but he didn’t read the whole list. What did that imply? Were the other pages irrelevant ― women’s names? Or … did the sudden stop mean that Pablo … was dead?

  He decided to search for the bodies Cuenca had spoken of. If they existed, he thought, they would be in the working-class areas; not in the streets of the middle-class quarter he had hurried through on his way to the police station and the barracks. He had never seen a dead man, and his first sight of one ― a youth, in workman’s clothes, not much older than Pablo, propped against a wall like a Guy Fawkes dummy, filled him with horror and disgust.

  A trickle of dried blood stained the young man’s mouth. Blowflies buzzed round him, settled on his eyes.

  The hairs on the back of Stephen’s head prickled.

  People looked the other way, or crossed the road. No one, it appeared, wanted to claim the body as theirs; or rather, perhaps, did not want to be seen to claim it. In this district, faces had only one expression: terror. Who would be next? But someone, a middle-aged woman, saw Stephen staring at the body, and she stopped and asked, ‘Was he a friend?’ There was sympathy in her voice.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘He … he suffered for his ideas.’

  ‘Ideas?’

  ‘Inglés?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her manner changed. ‘It’s all very well for you.’ she said sourly, and walked off.

  The positioning of the bodies was careful, Stephen realised, They hadn’t been flung from lorries at random, but were placed, singly at corners. Not at every corner: maybe some had already been removed, or there were not enough to go round ― yet. An injunction to the street: stay in line, or it will be your turn. A few were bloody and mutilated ― they had evidently been tortured before being shot ― but most seemed asleep, or as a drunk might look when he walks out of a bar. lurching, tottering.

  No sign of Pablo.

  Stephen returned to the Casa Badajoz.

  Tomás Guzmán was surprised that his phone call was put through as quickly as usual; he had thought the lines would be cut.

  The Cardinal Archbishop of Seville told him to keep calm.

  ‘But I’ve been dismissed!’ Tomás exclaimed,, angrily. ‘It’s illegal! I’ve been ordered to a monastery … San Alban de la Consolación.’

  ‘You had better go there, then,’ Monsignor Hernandez said. ‘These are not normal times, Tomás.’

  ‘Do you dismiss me? Tell me to go to San Alban?’

  ‘With great reluctance. I shall pray for you.’

  ‘All I did was to register a protest in the mildest terms.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Atrocities. The garrison here has arrested trade unionists, city councillors, even some of the teachers and doctors with left-wing views ― anyone who has some connection with the Popular Front. Men and women who simply voted for the socialists in February. Everyone is denouncing everyone else … old scores are being settled that have nothing to do with politics … one man was taken because he owed his butcher a few pesetas! The mayor’s youngest son has vanished; he’s only seventeen … and do you realise, Julián, what is happening to these people? They are being shot! Shot like mad dogs and their corpses are left in the streets! I wouldn’t be a Christian if I didn’t protest!’

  Tomás, this is a crusade. The army is delivering Spain from immoralities that have corrupted us for centuries. If a few Reds die in the proceedings … well, it can’t be helped.’

  These are not Reds! I know these people … they’re not Communist agitators or Russian spies!’

  ‘You cannot make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.’

  Tomás paused before answering. ‘I scarcely think it appropriate,’ he said, ‘for you of all people, Julian, to quote Lenin!’ A naturally timid man, he felt a thrill of danger: he had never before spoken so sharply to a superior.

  ‘I scarcely think it appropriate for you,’ Cardinal Hernandez bristled, ‘to talk to me like that!’

  ‘Julián … even the police chief is under arrest! A good man, Julián, a friend of mine … I shall do what I c
an to get him out of jail, of course. Last night lorry-loads of prisoners were taken from their cells and driven into the Plaza de la Paz. Every prisoner was shot, except one ― at the crucial moment, a man came forward and said this prisoner, a doctor, was completely innocent. The officer in charge of the execution said he had orders to deliver forty-seven bodies to the barracks; forty-seven bodies there had to be. “Take your friend if you like,” he said, “We’ll shoot someone else in his place.” And with that, he grabbed the nearest passer-by ― an old woman who was walking her dog ― and shot her in the head. It is hardly believable … but it’s true!’

  ‘One regrets it. Of course one regrets it! But a certain amount or terror is necessary … I, too, have done what is possible. I’ve asked General Queipo not to be … extravagant.’

  ‘That man! Did you hear him on the radio?’

  ‘Yes. He is, I agree … rustic. But … like the terror … he’s necessary.’

  ‘Julián … I feel … I didn’t think I’d ever have to listen to such notions! From you, or from any priest.’

  ‘It is just as well, Tomas,’ said the cardinal, annoyed again, ‘that you’re being sent to a monastery. This is a war, Tomas! And we need bishops who actively support the crusade! When do you leave?’

  ‘On Tuesday.’

  ‘I hope your card index goes with you.’

  ‘It does. A cook in one of the hotels was shot! Her crime … the secretary of the Caterers’ Union was found in her bed!’

  ‘Then she deserved it.’

  ‘Did Jesus shoot the woman taken in adultery?’

  Monsignor Hernandez sighed. ‘Zahara is not the only city where people have been arrested and shot. It’s happened … on a much bigger scale … in Seville. Indeed, in every part of the country. I suppose you’ve heard today’s news?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was Sunday, July the nineteenth. The army had risen all over Spain, except in Galicia and western Leon, though this was to occur, with success for the rebels, on the following day. Some cities, whether they had stayed loyal to the Republic or not, had experienced no bloodshed; but in Madrid, Valencia and Barcelona, great battles were fought. The rebels’ main victories were in Castille Navarre and Aragón ― regions traditionally conservative and right-wing. The south and the east stayed with the Republic, as did the Basque country and a narrow strip of the northern coast. The prime minister, Casares Quiroga resigned, and the first action of the new administration was to distribute arms to the people, which helped to win Madrid and Barcelona for the Republic. In Valencia there was stalemate, as there had been since the day before in Granada. By the morning of Tuesday, July the twenty-first, a rough line could be drawn on a map from the north-east of Spain to just below Cácares, half-way down the Portuguese frontier ― the one side Nationalist with the exception of Asturias and the Basque country; the other Republican, apart from Seville and a few Andalusian cities which were isolated islands of rebel control. Valencia, ultimately, stayed loyal: Granada did not. This line ― very roughly ― was the same division produced by the votes last February. It also suggested an older divide that went back to the era of Isabella and Ferdinand; the south and east were, in part, the reconquered territories. The disjunction of Spain, therefore, into two warring zones reflected quarrels and hatreds that were much older than anything to do with the Republic ― disputes about the power of the Church, the role of the army, and, above all, the ownership of the land.

  Stephen’s profound sense of shock in the plaza de toros, when he heard of the risings, was felt in every city and village. The moment, expected so long, feared or welcomed as the case might be, was, when at last it occurred, an immense surprise. And the accident of where people were at the time determined what happened to them subsequently ― whether they lived or died, and, if they lived, what sort of existence they would have for the next few years. Someone travelling by train, for example, from Madrid to Barcelona would have got to his destination safely and without incident if he had gone by the Valencia route, but if he had elected to go via Zaragoza he would never have arrived.

  Tomás’s discovery that the phone lines weren’t severed shows one curious aspect of the situation ― the impartiality and the efficiency of the telephone system. It continued to operate as if nothing unusual was going on, and neither side attempted to sabotage it. This caused certain problems ― Azaña, the President of the Republic, was in the habit of calling friends in other countries to tell them what was happening: any rebel listening in could therefore find out the Government’s thinking and its plans.

  ‘Tomás,’ the cardinal said, ‘our job is to carry on as priests of God, and to assist the new regime in purging Spain of its evils.’ A long silence followed. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll pray for ― and work for ― the defeat of this callous, cruel regime.’

  ‘I shall phone General Araquistain, and discuss with him the name of your successor.’

  After a good breakfast sent in by Inez, Miguel was taken out to the parade ground. Here he was astonished to see a group of about fifty prisoners lined up, hands tied behind their backs. They were closely guarded by armed soldiers. What were they doing here, he wondered stupidly; civil prisoners weren’t brought to the barracks but to the jail, and yesterday there hadn’t been fifty prisoners in the jail. Twelve, if his memory served him right, and they were all here. Why? Yes, three burglars, a forger, and the anarchists he’d locked up the other day, the ones who’d been telling people in the street to usurp the power of the state. But all the others … Garcia, the secretary of the local branch of the Socialist party: Sanchez, the editor at Zahara’s left-wing newspaper: Kindelán, the trade unionist: Martinez, the grocer ― what on earth could his crime be? Cabanellas, a teacher, vociferous in his Red convictions. Pablo Badajoz. Pablo Badajoz! This was grotesque… a nightmare! He rubbed his eyes. It was real.

  Pablo, the vigorous, cheerful youth drinking plum brandy at the Casa Goicoechea not forty-eight hours ago! The boy’s huge black eyes were full of despair.

  ‘But I know him,’ Miguel said. ‘He’s only seventeen. He can’t possibly have done anything wrong!’

  ‘Oh yes, I know you know him,’ Araquistain answered. ‘As we can’t find his father, we thought he’d do instead. These prisoners are the scum of the earth … the filth that has been polluting us for years! However… in a few moments they’ll all be dead.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Their bodies will be thrown into the streets. Pour encourager les autres, you understand. A little fear and terror will fill the city with a sudden, quite marvellous obedience to the new Spain.’ He halted Miguel in front of Pablo, and said, ‘Shoot him.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘If you don’t, then you’ll be shot.’ Soldiers on either side drew their pistols and pointed them at Miguel’s head. A third thrust a pistol into his right hand.

  Silence. Pablo trembled; his teeth chattered.

  ‘I can’t do such a thing,’ Miguel said. He felt as if he was going to faint. ‘Eighteen is the age for the death penalty. This is against the law!’

  ‘Hurry up and do it, Don Miguel,’ Pablo said, ‘before the shit runs down to my knees! They’ll murder me anyway … kill me and save yourself!’ Then he added, ‘I forgive you … and wish you better luck than I’ve had. Give my love to Stephen. And my respects to my parents. Tell Pedro I died like … like a man.’

  ‘I can’t do it! I won’t do it!’

  ‘Your loyalty test,’ Araquistain said. ‘Think of your daughter Carmen. And the beautiful Dona Inez. Imagine their shock and horror when they see your corpse in the Plaza de la Tristeria.’

  Miguel thought of that shock and horror.

  He raised the gun, pointed it at Pablo’s head, and fired. The boy sagged, crumpled, and fell over, not flat on his face, but curled up as if asleep. Like a dying rabbit, Miguel said to himself as he, too, collapsed ― in a dead faint.

  When he revived he found he was sprawled in the dust o
utside the gates of the barracks, a free man. Free? He eventually struggled upright, and tottered slowly away. A friend he passed inquired how he was; this person later said he had never seen someone looking so ill, so out of his mind, as Don Miguel looked that morning.

  There were bodies at street corners, the grocer Martinez, and the left-wing schoolmaster; if he saw Pablo, Miguel thought, he would vomit on the spot. He arrived home, but was unable to say a word in reply to Inez’s welcome and her relief that he’d returned. He ignored her questions ― ‘What’s the matter? What’s gone wrong now? Are you sick?’ ― and went upstairs, took off his clothes and climbed into bed.

  He said: ‘I shall never get up again.’

  ‘I’ll fetch a doctor.’ Inez answered.

  ‘I’d rather you fetched the priest… Tomás.’

  She sent for both. The doctor ― the one who had been rescued from the execution lorry ― he refused to see, but the bishop remained closeted with him for over an hour. What transpired between them was never said to another human being, despite Inez imploring Tomás to tell her. ‘The secrets of the confessional,’ was all Tomás would say.

  In his lucid moments Miguel was fearful of what might happen to him. The army’s hold on the city he knew was insecure; a counter-attack could be successful. What kind of punishment would the Badajoz family ―life-long friends ― demand? Pedro Badajoz he feared in particular.

  He wrote a letter to Araquistain, resigning from the police force. He did not speak for days, and refused all offers of food. His nights were hellish; he would doze, then jerk awake from terrible dreams that were dominated by Pablo’s eyes, staring, accusing, demanding justice and revenge. He frequently contemplated suicide, but what the bishop had said on that subject stopped him from taking any action.

  Iñez was beside herself. No one at the barracks, would tell her what had occurred, and she was left to make a thousand guesses as to the reason for her husband’s sudden and extraordinary disintegration. ‘I’m afraid tor his sanity,’ she said to Carmen, over and over again. ‘He’ll go mad!’

  Which might have happened had he been allowed to rot alone. Events, however, dragged him from his bed and rewarded him with a quite different fate.