“You’re assuming they were getting fed.”
Mueller took another quick pull on the cigarette and said, “We need to be down the mountain before it gets too hot.”
He stepped over and picked up the rucksack. He spun it onto his back and started to walk. “We need to go.” He then limped off across the grass—sloped trees to one side, fortress to the other—and Hoffner found a moment’s relief in the absurdity of it.
Hoffner forced himself to his feet. “Not sure how much more walking I’ve got in me, Toby.”
Mueller tossed the cigarette to the grass. “Then this is your lucky day.”
* * *
They were bicycles, black, at least ten years old, but with enough leather on the saddles to make them workable. Mueller had them chained to a tree on the far side where the rutted paths, such as they were, led down into the city.
Hoffner stood a few meters behind and above as Mueller pulled open the lock.
“You’re joking,” Hoffner said.
Mueller double-looped the chain under the seat and pulled up the taller of the two bicycles. He stood waiting for Hoffner to take it before pulling up the other. Both had the letters CNT-FAI painted across the handlebars. Hoffner also noticed how the right-hand pedals on both were fitted with a block of some sort to compensate for Mueller’s limp.
“I always keep a spare,” said Mueller. “Told you it was your lucky day.”
Mueller slotted the valise-cum-satchel into the rack and began to limp with the bicycle over to what passed for a path. He was surprisingly agile as he jumped onto the seat and let the slope take him. Hoffner watched as Mueller’s head bobbled with increasing speed—down, around a turn, and gone. Hoffner shouted after him, “You’re a son of a bitch, Toby!” then stepped up, climbed on, and found some speed of his own.
Hoffner had no reason to worry about the oversized pedal. He was simply holding on as best he could, his grip firmly planted on the hand brakes as the wheels seemed to take every root and rock with miraculous finesse. There was a strange familiarity to it, a thousand years of cigarettes and brandy tossed aside by something almost impatient. Hoffner began to smell the rubber on the tires, and gently released the brakes until he found himself letting go completely. He was actually managing the thing: more than managing it, he was gaining on Mueller. Somehow the bumps were a help as well, relieving the strain from the valise in his lower back. Hoffner might even have heard himself laugh.
“Enjoying yourself?” Mueller shouted over his shoulder.
Hoffner hadn’t the courage to answer as the turns came more quickly. It was nearly fifteen minutes of catching his breath until the taste of sugared beets began to recede, the canopy of trees was thinner—then gone—and the path became smooth. The glare from the sun took several seconds to adjust to as Hoffner looked down: to his amazement he was staring at pavement. He looked up again and saw a massive building farther down the slope—domes and steeples tinted by the sun—and, beyond it, the city and its harbor.
Mueller slowed, and Hoffner gently squeezed the brakes. The two were now side by side as they rode.
“Palau Nacional,” Mueller said. “No guns inside so they left it alone. It’ll be the People’s something-or-other by next week. Could be now.”
Hoffner might have been drawn to the sight of its wide fountain, or its endless steps, or its twin pillar gates planted at the far end of the plaza—these, in their perfect symmetry, were meant to hold the eye—but instead he saw only the city stretching out beyond them. It was a sea of white stone and tiled roofs.
“Bring your knees in, Nikolai,” said Mueller. “You’re beginning to look like an old priest.”
JOSEP GARDENYES
It was another twenty minutes before they came to even ground. Hoffner was grateful for the cramped feel of the side streets. The smells coming from the open doorways might have left the taste of boiling wool in the mouth, but at least the buildings were packed tightly enough together to make direct sunlight rare: six stories on either side, with balconies draped in red and black. His head was throbbing from the heat or thirst or lack of booze—or maybe just the thought of continued exertion—but whatever it was he knew he needed to get off this horrible machine and find something without wheels to sit on.
It didn’t help that at almost every intersection it was a test to see how well he and Mueller could wend their way around the barricades that littered the streets. Most of the sandbag and brick obstructions were unmanned, although there had been one a few blocks back where they were forced to bring out Mueller’s magical piece of paper. Their interrogator had been without a gun, only a sack on a rope over his shoulder and an airman’s cap stitched with the letters FAI along one side. He stood atop a bullet-strafed sandbag in a white shirt—sleeves rolled high and neat to the upper arm—and an elegant pair of pleated dress trousers, his shoes fine if slightly worn. He would have looked the perfect part—cigarette dangling from his lips, a few days’ growth of beard—had he not been, at best, ten years old. Even so, he spoke with an authority that made the boys back on the coast road look like amateurs.
“You know why we must destroy the fascists?” the boy said, as he glanced across the paper. It was unclear whether he knew how to read.
Mueller nodded vigorously and Hoffner did the same.
The boy said, “So that Spain can be free.”
Mueller pulled a wrapped bar of chocolate from his pocket—Hoffner wondered what else might be inside should he go looking for himself—and handed it to the boy.
“Salud, friend,” Mueller said. “¡Viva la Libertad!”
The boy pocketed the chocolate and nodded them along. Half a block later, Mueller pulled a second bar from his pocket and handed it to Hoffner. “You weren’t thinking that was real, were you, Nikolai?”
Hoffner peeled back the wrapping and took a bite. It was good Swiss chocolate. “I’m glad he didn’t have a rifle.”
“He’s got one somewhere. It doesn’t work, but he’s got one.”
“That’s encouraging.” Hoffner handed the bar back and Mueller pocketed it.
“They’re all so damned sure of themselves,” Mueller said, with a tinge of bitterness.
The streets began to grow more peopled. Men and women—all with the red neckerchief—walked in small groups, bags with food, newspapers. They were inside stores or leaning from balconies, conversations and laughter, caps and hats arrayed in the various emblems of their new-won power. It was a city on a Sunday, like any other, except here there had been no prayers to God or hopes of salvation. They had left those behind. And of course the guns—a rifle over a shoulder or a pistol at the waist. They carried them with the same easy certainty one wears a new pair of shoes: moments here and there to recall the novelty, but always that sense of purpose and pride. That these had been used to kill other Spaniards ten days ago hardly seemed to matter. Or perhaps that was what mattered most of all.
Mueller smiled at a girl in a doorway. She smiled back, and Mueller continued to walk. “One day to take the city, and now it’s boys playing at soldier.”
Hoffner was thinking about the chocolate; he could have used another bite. “So you’re telling me that wasn’t a checkpoint back there?”
Mueller laughed quietly. “With a boy standing guard? They may be arrogant, Nikolai, but they’re not stupid.” He spat something to the ground. “Ten days ago—maybe that was the genuine article. Now it’s for a boy to run out when his friends dare him to stop the two foreigners and see if he can get a bit of chocolate. He’s a hero today. When we find a checkpoint, you’ll know. Trust me.”
They had come to the far end of the Conde del Asalto, a narrow strip of road identical to the rest except it marked the edge of Poble Sec, a workers’ district. The Paralelo—a wide avenue that had seen its fair share of the fighting—was a stone’s throw away, and Mueller found a nice big tree to rest the bicycles against.
“You thirsty, Nikolai?” he said, as he pulled the valise out of the rack
.
Hoffner leaned his bicycle up as well. “You won’t get the chain around this, you know.”
“I wasn’t planning on trying.”
“So the painted letters manage it again?”
Mueller handed the valise to Hoffner. “No one takes a bicycle, Nikolai. It’s not the way they do things here.”
“But a fifteen-year-old car—”
“A banker or a judge or some old marqués used to drive one of those. Have you ever seen a banker on a bicycle? The letters, they’re just—” Mueller smiled and shrugged.
“They make sure the girls know who you’re fighting for?”
Mueller kept his smile as he led them across the street. “You’ll like this place. Quiet, serene. Tranquilidad.”
On the far corner was a café, tables outside, with just enough tree cover to make sitting out worth the heat. A few were occupied, though it was too early for food. Glasses and bottles with something a deep yellow stood on most of them. Two men—one with a nice full mustache, the other trying desperately to grow one—were at one of the back tables, and Mueller headed toward them.
Hoffner said under his breath, “You know them?”
“Everyone knows everyone in Barcelona these days.” Mueller raised a hand and said, “Gabriel,” loudly enough to draw the mustached man’s attention. The man smiled at once and raised his hand as he stood.
“Toby!” he said, as he stepped around the table toward Mueller.
Gabriel was barrel-chested, though not tall, with the thick arms of a man who had spent his life doing someone else’s heavy work. The cheeks were round, the nose pug, and the thick, thick mustache—on closer inspection—had a ruff of tobacco-dyed hair at its center. His lips curled around a cigarette even as he spoke.
“Finally some German reinforcements. You’ve brought—what?—thirty planes, twenty tanks, ten thousand rifles?” He didn’t wait for Mueller to answer before pulling him in for a full embrace. “You smell of sweat and beets.” Gabriel let go. Somehow the cigarette remained fixed on his lip. “You came down from Montjuïc, didn’t you? Idiot.” Before Mueller could answer, Gabriel turned back to the table. He motioned for the younger man to come over. “You know him, I’m sure,” he said under his breath. “The mustache is a mistake, but you can’t say anything.”
The younger man was strangely small and with unusually pale features for a Spaniard—light eyes, ginger hair. The hands were also soft and slender. If not for the long narrow nose it would have been hard to place him in this part of the world. There was age in the face that made the patchy stubble above the lip even more of a curiosity. He was called Aurelio, and he shook hands with the kind of firmness of a man one was meant to trust.
“They came down Montjuïc,” Gabriel said to him. “On bicycles. In this heat.”
“Good tough Germans,” said the little man, “but not terribly bright.” He smiled and led them back to the table. “We’ll need a drink.”
* * *
Hoffner had tried Coca-Cola—once. It had been enough. Gabriel drank nothing else. Café Tranquilidad had somehow kept a healthy stash of it. Anarchists, it turned out, liked their American fizzy drinks. Luckily, Aurelio preferred wine.
The little man refilled the empties and set the wine bottle back on the table. “You don’t sound like a socialist, Nikolai, let alone an anarchist.”
They had been through the antifascist arguments—intricate explanations of the cause and its meaning and its essentialness—an animated tour de force that had brought Gabriel’s cigarette out of his mouth for a single moment as he had stabbed at the air with it. Queipo de Llano. Son of a bitch.
Hoffner said, “It’s hard not to be one these days, isn’t it?”
Aurelio’s smile became a quiet laugh, and he brought his glass to his mouth. “Sitting with two anarchists in the middle of Barcelona,” he said. “Each with a pistol on his belt. Yes, I’d say you’re right.” He took a sip. “Did he tell you it was Jew Mountain?”
Hoffner was holding his glass on the table, staring at it. It took him a moment to answer. “Pardon?”
“Montjuïc,” said Aurelio. “Did Toby tell you it was called Jew Mountain?” Hoffner had no reason not to nod, and Aurelio said, “Are you a Jew?”
The question caught Hoffner off guard. He waited, then picked up his glass. “Odd question from a godless Spaniard. Or are you trying to make me feel more at home?” He took a drink.
“Don’t worry. It’s not Berlin. No, I was just wondering if he told you because he thought it would make you feel more—I don’t know—connected. Toby has that sort of sentimentality.”
Mueller was finishing off his second glass of wine. He shook his head and swallowed. “The Spaniard accusing the German of sentimentality. That’s rich.”
Hoffner said, “Half-Jew—my mother—so, yes—in Berlin. I didn’t think it mattered here.”
“It doesn’t,” Aurelio said. “But if it did—matter to you, that is—I’d hate to be the one to disappoint. It’s Jupiter Mountain, not Jew. Common mistake. Toby knows it, I think.”
Hoffner looked across at Mueller, who shrugged, and Hoffner said, “Then he’d know it wouldn’t make any difference to me, one way or the other.”
Aurelio glanced at Gabriel and tossed back the rest of his drink. He stared into the empty and said, “Then why are you here?” It was another few moments before he looked directly at Hoffner. The gaze was hard, and Hoffner suddenly felt very much aware of the pistol that was hanging somewhere off the little man’s belt.
Hoffner finished his drink. He placed the glass by the bottle and nodded as if in agreement. “I see. No anarchist, no socialist, no angry Jew. So what am I doing in Barcelona?”
Gabriel said, “It’s a curious place to be these days otherwise.” He looked over at Mueller. “Not that we don’t trust you, Toby, but—” The Spanish shrug had so much more to do with the chin and the tilt of the head than the German.
There was a heaviness in the silence that followed. It lent a truth to what Hoffner said. “I’m looking for someone.”
Aurelio lapped at the last of his glass. “Better that than being looked for, I suppose.”
Gabriel opened a third bottle of the Coca-Cola, and said, “You’re a policeman?”
Again Hoffner looked across at Mueller. There was nothing there. Hoffner picked up the bottle of wine. “Was. Yes.”
“The shoes,” said Gabriel. “I imagine that’s universal.”
“I imagine it is.” Hoffner poured himself another.
“The Germans who’ve come have all been wild eyes and young or dripping with nostalgia. I’m sure you’d recognize them.” He drank. “The first are useless. They think we’ll take on Hitler once we’re through here, the great International rising again. They don’t know Spain at all, do they?” He began to play with the bottle cap. “The second—also useless, but with years and years of dreamed-up arrogance to stand on. They’ve been through it before, they understand how to organize. That was quite a success all those years ago, your little Rosa Luxemburg and her band. They took Berlin for—what?—ten minutes? But then these Germans see it differently.
“Luckily,” he said, tossing the cap into a bucket on the floor, “they’re all happy to kill fascists, so we drink with them, and listen to their empty tales of struggle—workers of the world with their pretty houses and gardens and weekends by the sea—and know they haven’t the slightest idea of what it is to live every day with a boot clamped down on a throat.” Gabriel looked directly at him, and Hoffner wondered where the amiable man of only minutes ago had gone. “You seem to be neither, so you can understand our interest.”
Hoffner thought about drinking the wine. For some reason, though, he was wanting water. He looked around for a waiter.
“My son’s the Jew,” he said. The waiter was nowhere to be found. “We’ve worked it in reverse—half to full. He came to film the games, and he went missing.” Hoffner looked back at the table and found a canteen in front of hi
m.
“The waiter,” Aurelio said. “He’ll expect you to have brought your own. It’s a miracle they had the wine.”
Hoffner nodded his thanks and drank.
“My son could be one of your young Germans,” he said, “but I doubt it.” Hoffner screwed the top on and handed it to Aurelio. “Not that I care as long as I get him out of here.”
Gabriel said, “So an old German with no politics, and a young Jew with no sense. It’s a compelling story.”
“You seem overly concerned in a city draped in red.”
“Euphoria’s a nice thing for a day or two, but I’m not so convinced this is as finished as everyone seems to say.”
“So, a Spaniard with sense.”
The round cheeks squeezed up and around the eyes, forming a smile. “I can guarantee you Toby’s thinking the same thing.”
Mueller had been running one of his pincer fingers along the table’s edge, staring at it as it went back and forth.
Gabriel said, “He knows better than to trust any of this good fortune, don’t you, Toby?”
Mueller looked up. He bobbed an indifferent nod.
Gabriel said, “It’s because you’re a criminal, isn’t it, and criminals always know better.”
Mueller said, “Is he around today?”
“Tell me, Toby,” said Gabriel, “do you think the fascist generals are done for? Are we anarchists as unstoppable as we think we are?”
It was clear Mueller was uncomfortable with this, and not because he was any less savvy than the rest. He just didn’t like the distraction. “Is he in the back?” he asked.
Gabriel said, “Toby can tell you who’s the best man to get a voucher from, where you can still find a bit of ammunition, and how to get a truckload of whiskey down the coast. He’s always been good with those sorts of things.” His cigarette had lost its flame; even so, it stayed on his lip as he continued. “You remember that banker we pulled from his car—paying off scabs to work during one of the general strikes? What was that—’thirty, ’thirty-one? We needed to know which gas station he used on Fridays. Toby figured it out. That’s why he got to keep the car.” Gabriel laughed—it was tobacco-laced, and he pulled the dead cigarette from his mouth. A fresh one was in its place and lit within seconds. “What Toby won’t do is look into the future. I haven’t decided which I admire most. Yes, he’s in the back. I wouldn’t take too long with it.”
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