Quince

by David Rees

  Then there was the ultimate paradox, the one in himself. He loved Pedro as much as he would ever love any man, yet he wasn’t sure he liked him. He was beginning to look forward to returning to England, for the same reasons José had gone to Rojo: to try and make sense of the chaos.

  Pedro drove him one evening up the Grazalema road to the top of the pass. They lay on the ground absorbing the incomparable view: nothing had changed; it was as if the war didn’t exist ― had never existed. Rock, stones, scree; ravens. Tiny Zahara on its tiny peak. Olive orchards. Vast distances. Mountains beyond mountains. Silence. Stephen was surprised, then surprised that he was surprised: it should have changed. Everything else had.

  The stone resting against my foot, he said to himself, will outlive me.

  ‘I’ll be in England next week.’

  Pedro did not answer.

  The journey won’t be difficult … though I can’t travel by the normal route; too much of the railway system is in fascist hands. I can get a bus to Guadix, then take a train up the coast to Valencia and Barcelona, and on into France.’

  ‘You’re needed here.’

  ‘I have to go. Term begins.’

  ‘Will you come back?’

  ‘Yes. As soon as I can.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next June.’

  Pedro rolled over and stared at him. ‘We could all be dead by then.’

  ‘I don’t think so, somehow. You told me you had nine lives. Remember?’

  ‘I consider you and me as … married.’

  ‘Once upon a time you laughed at that notion.’

  ‘I’ve changed.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you for a single hour! But I have to.’

  Pedro sighed. ‘It’s what I did to Miguel, isn’t it? You don’t approve. I’ve noticed it… in bed.’ Stephen said nothing. ‘Have you forgotten Pablo Badajoz? That… eager young boy? He was in love with life! Did he deserve what happened to him? Did he? What do you think he thought and felt when Miguel put that pistol to his head? He shit himself like a baby! He ―’

  ‘Stop! I’ve forgotten nothing! Nothing!’

  ‘Then you should understand.’ Pedro was crying; the only time Stephen ever saw him do so.

  ‘A tooth for a tooth. As a form of justice, it’s prehistoric.’

  ‘Some acts of wickedness scream out for vengeance!’

  A long silence followed this. ‘We wouldn’t be arguing,’ Stephen said eventually, ‘if there was no war. I wonder what we’d be doing.’

  Pedro thought for a while, then said, ‘I’d have a powerful motor-bike. A Norton. We’d travel through Europe … and see the world together. Sleep in a tent. Swim in the Mediterranean, Catch our own fish and cook them over a fire. Wash them down with a good wine. Then … I’d come and live with you in England.’

  ‘I will be back. Do you believe me?’

  Pedro sighed again. ‘Yes.’ he said.

  He gave his parents only a brief sketch of his adventures, but when he returned during the second week of October to Cambridge, he found himself ― very much to his own surprise ― telling the whole story, nothing omitted, to Professor Potts. The old man heard him out in silence, hardly moving in his comfortable armchair, except to flick ash from his cigarette and to refill the sherry glasses. His only interruption occurred when Stephen said that, after his discovery of Pablo’s body, he’d vowed not to leave Spain until justice was done, even if it meant abandoning the Michaelmas Term at Cambridge. ‘If you’d stayed there,’ the professor said with some asperity, ‘you’d have been sent down without taking your degree.’ He pulled the curtains shut, with rather unnecessary force.

  ‘I will go back,’ Stephen said. ‘Next year.’

  ‘I imagine it has … made you grow up. Turned you into a man very quickly. Do you … really love this extraordinary … person?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry if you’re embarrassed it isn’t a woman.’

  ‘Good Lord! It’s difficult to be shocked at my age! That sort of thing goes on all the time! I only hope … he’ll still be living. Franco seems to have the upper hand so far.’

  It was true. The Republic had not regained any of the territory it had lost in the first days of the rising, apart from two cities inside its own zone, Zahara and Albacete. The rebels meanwhile had captured Huelva, Mérida, Badajoz, Talavera and Toledo, and the villages between Seville, Cordoba and Granada. They had also occupied western Estremadura, which deprived the Republic of its access to Portugal. Their two zones were now joined, which permitted freedom of movement between Queipo’s army in the south, Franco’s in the centre, and Mola’s in the north. Mola had taken San Sebastian and Irún, thus sealing off the Basque-French border.

  ‘Now you can get back to work,’ the professor said. ‘Doubtless your Spanish has improved.’

  ‘Oh, yes! I even think in Spanish. And I think Spain every minute of the day!’

  ‘So in June I can expect first-class honours.’

  ‘It would be nice,’ Stephen said.

  SEVEN

  A first-class honours degree was what he obtained; Professor Potts was delighted. As soon as he heard the results, Stephen packed and left for Zahara, despite the vehement objections of his parents and friends ― the situation was extremely dangerous, they said; he might not even arrive. But there was nothing anyone could do to stop him: he was twenty-one now, and free to act as he pleased. He crossed from France into Spain at Port Bou on June the third, the day General Mola was killed in an air crash.

  It was the first cheering news in weeks for the Republic. It delighted Franco as well: his chief rival was dead.

  Most of the changes of the past year, Stephen realised as he travelled through the Republic, were for the worse; the heady optimism of July 1936 had been replaced by a grimmer mood, though it was difficult to find anyone who thought the war was lost. Prices had risen sharply, and there were food shortages in many places. He heard tales everywhere of inefficiency, atrocities, and the various political factions of the Republic quarrelling among themselves instead of uniting to prosecute the war effectively. Governments had come and gone, and the present prime minister. Dr Negrín, Stephen had barely heard of. The defence of Madrid, it was true had been heroic ― during the winter the rebels were fought to a standstill ― but it was a sad story in the north: the enemy had captured much of the Basque country; Guernica had been bombed, and Bilbao itself was now threatened. Málaga and most of its province had fallen to Queipo, which left Zahara dangerously exposed, though Queipo had not yet launched an attack.

  He was still deterred, not by the bloodthirsty reputation Pedro and his men had achieved, but by the geographical problem. An air strike would have helped him, but he was short of planes. Franco had none to lend ― his own were too busy. So Zahara remained undisturbed.

  Until the morning Stephen began his journey, when Queipo decided to make the attempt. His army advanced almost unopposed through towns and villages that were too surprised to resist, and he was in so much of a hurry that he did not stop to inflict the usual terror. He reached the outskirts of the city as Stephen’s train drew into Perpignan. Zahara, aware for the previous twenty-four hours of what was afoot, had just about enough time to prepare its defences. The suburbs were abandoned, and the people who lived there were moved into the old city. Walls of cobbles, concrete blocks, old cars ― anything ― were built across the steep hills that led into the ancient quarters; every able-bodied person ― man, woman, teenager ― not required in some essential work was armed and sent to the barricades. There was no shortage of weapons or ammunition ― large quantities had been hastily dispatched from Jaén as soon as Queipo’s intentions were known, and units of soldiers were promised also. The major difficulty, as Pedro saw it, was to stop Zahara from being surrounded. The city couldn’t withstand a long siege; it was totally dependent for its food supplies on access to villages on its eastern flank. It was vital, therefore, that the Grazalema road remained open. It should be possible, he t
hought; it ran along the top of a small ridge that commanded extensive views of the direction from which Queipo’s battalions would appear.

  Instead of surrounding Zahara, Queipo launched an all-out frontal attack. It was a mistake: the defenders could hardly believe their luck. The battle lasted two days, and was, as Pedro and others had prophesied, a victory ― of sorts. The suburbs were lost to Queipo ― some of them were in ruins from heavy shelling. A pall of smoke rose to the sky. But not one barricade had been captured. The defenders had every advantage, firing down from the steep streets, alleyways and twisting lanes, from doors and windows; and they inflicted many more casualties than they received. Boiling oil was poured over the rebel troops from the city’s ancient ramparts, which infuriated Queipo: it was the main theme of his harangue to the nation that night; ‘Which comes to you,’ Radio Seville announced, ‘not from our studios, but from the front line where our intrepid and glorious commander is winning yet another magnificent victory for God and Spain!’

  ‘I spoke to you before,’ Queipo thundered, ‘of the barbaric, medieval rites practised by the pagan inhabitants of Zahara de los Membrillos’ ― he did not say what they were; Franco had forbidden him ever again to refer on the air to genitalia ― ‘and I have to tell you of even more primitive and revolting acts they have indulged in today, acts that no civilised, Christian country would even think of!’ Throughout Spain you could have heard a pin drop: what had Queipo discovered now? Polygamy? Bestiality? Necrophilia? Surely not … homosexuality? But, for once, Spain was disappointed with the Radio General. Pouring boiling oil on a fascist army might make the fascists indignant, but the Republic had hoped for something more juicily indelicate. ‘Let me say to the Zaharanos,’ Queipo yelled, ‘that when they bite the dust, as surely they will, their doom will be equally medieval.’ Franco, listening in Burgos, groaned. They will… excuse me…’ Spain heard papers being rustled. ‘I have just heard the sad and tragic news of the death of General Emilio Mola ―’

  What medieval doom Queipo had in store was never announced.

  Stephen, staying that night in Valencia, wondered what course of action he should take if Zahara fell before he reached it, but he did not consider turning back. The journey was longer than he had imagined; air raids, interrupted rail schedules, trains requisitioned for the movement of troops. From Alicante to Zahara it was a matter of buses, hitching lifts and walking: it took him three days. He arrived in the city on a mule-cart piled high with vegetables (the Jaén road was still open), driven by a peasant from Santa Ana del Monte.

  He found Pedro in the Plaza Simpática. ‘You shouldn’t have left England,’ Pedro said. ‘I don’t want you killed!’

  ‘I will not be.’ he replied.

  ‘What will you do if the fascists take the city?’

  ‘Stay with you.’

  ‘You’re mad!’ But he smiled. ‘I can’t wait for tonight.’

  ‘Why not now?’

  Pedro laughed. ‘I’m in the middle of rallying an army!’ He gestured at the sky. ‘Don’t take any notice of this.’ The full-scale battle had stopped the night Stephen was in Valencia; since then the assailants were confining themselves to a little sporadic shelling, which was more to alarm the citizens than to create much damage. The Cardinal Archbishop of Seville had died, and his successor, a considerably more imperious personage than Julián, had told Queipo that the cathedral ― ‘One of our greatest treasures’ ― must at all costs be spared, and the Radio General had agreed. He was putting most of his exertions into dislodging the defenders from the ridge crossed by the Grazalema road. Without success so far: Pedro’s men could fire very accurately, had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of ammunition, and occupied all the high ground. They were also determined not to give an inch.

  José and Cristina had moved back to the Casa Badajoz, and were delighted to see Stephen ― there was none of the strained atmosphere of his final days last October. They were effusive with thanks for the presents he brought, luxuries they hadn’t seen in months ― gin, whisky, chocolates, cigars, and a box of goods from a Cambridge grocery store: pâté, China tea, biscuits, herbs.

  There was a rifle now above the kitchen fire-place, another by the stove.

  ‘Food is becoming a problem,’ Cristina said. ‘The rationing is more severe than it was. We still get plenty of fruit and milk from the village collectives, and wine too. And there’s no shortage of bread. But meat is scarce, and fish very difficult. We make do with lentils and rice.’

  Clearly they had recovered from the shock of Pablo’s murder. They did not have quite the same animation as of old, indeed they probably never would again, but the grey stricken faces Stephen remembered had gone; there was some sparkle, even laughter. José looked in mirrors, as before, to check his moustache, and Cristina practised her yoga. There had been a reconciliation with Pedro too. This had come about by their deciding that what he had done to Miguel was insignificant compared with the apocalyptic events dominating their lives. And they were impressed by many of the changes he had effected in the city. The poor were better fed than they had ever been; for the first time in their lives their monotonous diet was relieved with rice, sausages, meat (when it was available), and olive oil for cooking. The bourgeoisie didn’t like it of course, but they were fed and clothed too, and on the whole reserved their grumbling to comments like ‘There’s a war on; what can you expect?’

  The vast contribution that virtually the whole city made to its defences was also Pedro’s doing ― he had, for instance, persuaded women to work at night for no extra food rations, making stretchers and bandages. There had been a remarkable change in attitudes to women, Cristina said. There was little or no harassment these days; a woman alone in the streets at night was not regarded as a sex object. She was a comrade, on an equal footing. The encouragement of ‘free’ love hadn’t led to a rise in promiscuity; the reverse in fact, and there had not been a sudden increase in the birth-rate ― contraception was encouraged too. As marriage had been abolished, young people had sex at an earlier age now, but they seemed to stick to one another. The old customs had gone ― with marriage non-existent, girls no longer feared the loss of virginity, so they did not stay on the balconies of their houses, talking all evening to their boyfriends in the street below. The old rule ― the girl must be chaste the boy could visit the brothel ― had disappeared, and with it the pestering of women. Since the evacuation of the suburbs, accommodation had become very crowded; three or four people shared one room, and Cristina had heard stories of girls sleeping in the same bed with young men, and being quite happy to do so as they were not molested, not even propositioned. There were several people of both sexes living in the Casa Badajoz, in Pablo’s and Carlos’s rooms, most of them teenagers. She didn’t know what relationships were going on; she didn’t ask. These kids simply slept there at night, and during the day they went out to kill fascists.

  But it was in the field of education that Cristina and José felt most pride. There was co-education now, and modern school books had been sent from Madrid. Pupils edited and wrote for school magazines; drama was taught in the classroom ― this was all new. And the drive to make everyone literate had become a craze. There were new ‘schools’ all over Zahara: in a square or in an alley a blackboard could be seen, with bits of chalk, a piece of wood for a bench, and young kids and aged grandparents learning how to write their names or laboriously spelling out elementary words in a textbook. Cristina helped in these open-air classrooms whenever she had the time.

  The new hospital was built and functioning. Medicines were free, and so was medical attention.

  They had decided, long since, to move back to Zahara. Rural life at Rojo didn’t suit them, and Pedro had been right: they were needed in the city. They sold the old man’s house to the daughter and son-in-law of Señora Rodriguez, who were looking for a new home. José sent the money to Paris for Carlos and Isabella to invest; if the worst came to the worst and the Republic lost, he had no intention of
staying in Andalucía to be executed. He and Cristina ― and Pedro and Stephen too ― might want somewhere to live in France eventually, though the money obtained from the sale wouldn’t buy much more than a shack as primitive as the old man’s had been.

  Pablo, however, they did not talk about. It was obviously still very painful.

  Bishop Guzmán came to dinner that first night Stephen returned to Zahara. Stephen didn’t immediately recognize him, this peasant in a tunic and sandals. Tomás had become almost happily schizoid. Part of him wanted Queipo to take the city, for then the cathedral could be restored to its rightful purposes, and he could ― he supposed ― resume all his old episcopal responsibilities. He supposed: he hadn’t forgotten Cardinal Hernandez’s hasty agreement with General Araquistain that he should retire to the monastery at San Alban, though it was quite possible, both his Eminence and the general being dead, that the new cardinal was unaware of the matter. On the other hand, Tomás had enjoyed himself under the anarchists and approved of many of their ideas and schemes. He was afraid the cathedral was now in more danger from fascist shells than lunatic church-burners ― there had not been a hint of incendiary activity since Pedro had bossed Zahara. He didn’t know of Queipo’s pledge to avoid hitting the cathedral; he hadn’t spoken to the new archbishop, who probably thought Tomás was dead. He was still the committee’s secretary; he was a stretcher-bearer, and transported the wounded from the barricades to the hospital; he visited the sick; and sat up half the night writing new cards for his index. He was happy because he couldn’t remember a time when he had been so useful.