The Spanish Game am-3

by Charles Cumming

  ‘It’s a book about ETA,’ I tell her. ‘A book about terrorism.’

  She nods, giving nothing away. ‘You’re a journalist?’

  ‘No, I’m just interested in Spain.’

  ‘Vale.’

  To change the subject, Marta asks if I live in Madrid and I lie, for no good reason, telling her that I’m just visiting for a few days. The deceit, as always, is instinctive, although it encourages her to start recommending bars and clubs in the area which she thinks I might enjoy. We are flirting by now – she keeps flattering me with fixed, tickled stares – but in due course her boss gets itchy and calls her back to the bar.

  ‘See you later,’ she says, and her waist is so supple and lithe as she sways away that I consider cheating on Sofia for only the second time. I had the definite sense that she wanted me to invite her out for a drink after work. Maybe I deserve a steady girlfriend. Maybe it’s time to cast adultery aside and think about having a normal relationship.

  Fifteen minutes go by. Gradually the place fills up and a group of German weekenders settle into the booth next to mine, ordering jarras of lager for the boys and margaritas for the girls. Marta makes occasional eye contact from the bar, but it’s increasingly difficult to see her as the crowd swells. By 10.45 Mikel has still not shown and I walk briefly back to the entrance, checking the tables that look out on Gran Via in case he has sat down in a less discreet section of the bar. I try his mobile phone, but it has been switched off. Perhaps he is ignoring my calls. Either way, it seems unlikely that Arenaza is ever going to come. Towards eleven I have another brief conversation with Marta and order a third and final Rob Roy, at last beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. Chicote is now crammed and jazz has given way to the tedious electric thump of house music. Twenty minutes later, without saying goodbye to her, I take my coat down from the chrome rack above the table and head out onto the street. The rain, at least, has stopped, and I walk north into Chueca to find something to eat.

  Right up to two o’clock in the morning I keep trying Arenaza’s phone. It’s strange, but I develop a growing sense that something has happened to him, an accident or crisis. He did not strike me as the sort of person who would stand up an appointment, particularly one that he himself had been keen to organize; at the very least he would have exercised some charm and gone to the trouble of inventing an excuse. Late on Sunday, Julian happens to ring and in the course of an otherwise mundane conversation about Endiom, I manage to ask him if he has heard from Arenaza. It’s clear that he had no idea he was even coming to town and we hang up shortly afterwards. Eventually I go to bed, convinced that he will either call first thing in the morning, or that I’ll never hear from him again.

  15. The Disappeared

  The police call late on Tuesday afternoon.

  ‘Buenos dias. Podria hablar con Alex Milius, por favor?’

  I immediately know that it’s a cop and feel an instantaneous dread of the law. The voice is nicotine rich and official, speaking from an office where telephones ring incessantly in the background.

  ‘Soy yo. This is Alec Milius.’

  I am sitting alone in a tapas bar just south of the Bernabeu. To order a cup of coffee I spoke Spanish to the waiter, but make a decision now to stall the policeman by feigning an inability to communicate in any language but English.

  ‘Soy el Inspector Baltasar Goena. Llamo de la comandancia de la Guardia Civil en San Sebastian.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Quisiera hacerle unas preguntas sobre la desaparicion de Mikel Arenaza?’

  The revelation does not surprise me as much as it might. Arenaza has disappeared. Nevertheless, I pretend not to have understood.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me, sir. I don’t speak very good Spanish.’

  There is an annoyed pause. I’m hoping that Goena will simply lose patience and pursue another line of enquiry. That would be ideal. The last thing I need is a member of the Guardia Civil coming round to my apartment asking awkward questions.

  ‘I speak English a little,’ he replies. ‘I am a police. My name is Baltasar Goena. I ring you with the concern of the disappearing of Mikel Arenaza.’

  ‘Mikel who?’

  ‘Arenaza. You are knowing him?’

  I take an appropriate beat, always trying to stay one step ahead of the conversation, and say, ‘Yes, yes.’ There’s no point in denying my association with Mikel at this stage, not at least until I know exactly what’s going on. Goena has tracked down my number, so it’s a decent assumption that he has conclusive proof of our meeting. ‘I met Mr Arenaza for the first time two weeks ago. You said he has disappeared? Is everything all right?’

  Goena clears his throat. ‘I have questions.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ The waiter comes over with my coffee. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I explain this. I am explaining.’ Goena says something in Basque to a colleague. ‘You meet with Senor Arenaza for a meeting ten days before I am calling you. Febrero dia vente-siete. A Thursday. Can you tell me about this please, Mr Milius?’

  ‘Senor Goena, it’s terribly difficult for me to understand what you’re saying. Is there somebody in your office who speaks English?’

  The waiter looks down at my table, registering with a flick of his eyes that he has caught the lie. Goena coughs like a cat with something stuck in its throat.

  ‘No, no, there is not that here. Only I can speak English. I have just these questions, very quick now on your time. Your meeting with Senor Arenaza…’

  ‘…Senor Arenaza, yes…’

  ‘Can you be giving me details please?’ I pour two tubes of white sugar into the coffee. ‘Does he speak to you that he is going away?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all.’ I wonder if the police know about Rosalia. ‘We had dinner in San Sebastian, we discussed some business. I haven’t seen him since.’ Goena may have a record of the phone call Arenaza made to me from the airport, so I add, ‘We did speak briefly on the telephone a few days later, but he was only calling to verify some details.’

  ‘I am sorry. You speak to him?’

  Damn.

  ‘Yes. Last Thursday. At least I think it was. I’d have to check my diary. Why? What exactly has happened?’

  Goena ignores my question. ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘To be honest, I can’t remember. In the morning, I think.’

  ‘And did he say that he is to go to some place when you speak to him?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?’

  ‘Que?’

  ‘I said, “Could you repeat the question?”’

  ‘Si, si. I repeat. Does Senor Arenaza say that he is doing a travel to another city?’

  If Mikel was booked onto a Madrid flight, the San Sebastian police will have that information as a first line of enquiry, but there is no reason why I should have known about it. ‘No,’ I reply, ‘he said nothing to me about going away. Why? Where did he go?’

  Goena is writing things down. There’s a long pause before his next question and I can’t tell whether I am aiding or obstructing the investigation.

  ‘We believe he fly in an aeroplane to Madrid. He arrive and disappear. So you did not intend to meet Senor Arenaza when he was coming to your city?’

  ‘No. No. What do you mean he arrived and disappeared?’ It’s easy to sound worried; I just put my voice at a slightly tighter pitch. ‘Like I said, we didn’t know each other. We had a meeting in San Sebastian. Otherwise nothing. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

  This final remark does the trick. Goena asks a couple of supplementary questions but seems to believe in my innocence. I drain the coffee in two mouthfuls, praying that the conversation will now end. Purely for reasons of bureaucracy Goena asks for my home address and passport number, but the interrogation goes no further. As soon as we have hung up I leave two euros on the table and run outside to the nearest newsstand, buying a copy of El Pais. Sure enough, prominently set out on page five, is
the following story:

  LEADING BATASUNAPOLITICIAN VANISHES

  One of the key figures in Herri Batasuna, the banned political wing of the terrorist organization ETA, has disappeared.

  Mikel Arenaza, a councillor based in San Sebastian, boarded an Iberia flight bound for Madrid on Thursday. He later checked into the Hotel Cason del Tormes, but staff became suspicious when he did not return to his room for 48 hours.

  Senor Arenaza’s wife filed a missing person report with Guipuzcoa police at the weekend. Senora Izaskun Arenaza told police that her husband, 43, left home at around 9.20 a.m. on 6 March and was planning to be away on business for several days.

  The article goes on to describe Mikel’s career with Batasuna, but says very little about the details surrounding the case. With the exception of his luggage at the Hotel Cason del Tormes, no personal belongings have yet been found. I call Julian from the Endiom mobile and discover that he too has spoken to Goena and was able to offer little in the way of helpful information. He did not know, for example, that Arenaza was planning to come to Madrid, nor had he seen the article in El Pais. Indeed, he sounds curiously uninterested in the whole episode and even makes a joke to lighten the mood of our conversation.

  ‘What did you do, Alec? Pack him in cement boots and drop him in the Atlantic? You got him hiding in your cellar, boot-of-the-car job, drowned in the attic water tank?’

  In the circumstances I don’t find this funny, but summon a boss-flattering laugh. ‘Actually I never saw him after San Sebastian.’ Then Julian asserts, with baseless confidence, that ‘old Mikel will surface in a day or two’ and we bid one another farewell.

  But things go from bad to worse.

  The following morning, the Nokia rings at 8.05 a.m., shaking me from a deep sleep. An assertive-sounding Spaniard, this time with impeccable English, asks to speak – ‘immediately please’ – to ‘Mr Alexander Milius’.

  ‘I’m Alec Milius. What time is it?’

  ‘It is eight o’clock.’ The voice is young and humourless and offers only a scant apology for calling so early. ‘My name is Patxo Zulaika. I am a reporter with the Ahotsa newspaper in Euskal Herria. I need to ask you some questions concerning the disappearance of Mikel Arenaza.’

  I again look at the clock. It’s going to be harder to think my way around any questions before at least having a shower and a cup of coffee.

  ‘Couldn’t we do this later?’

  ‘We could, yes, we could, but a man’s life is at stake.’ This baffling overstatement is delivered without a hint of irony. ‘It is my understanding that you have already spoken to the police. I am currently in Madrid and would like to arrange to meet you this morning.’

  Zulaika must have got my number from Goena. I sit up out of bed, clear my throat, and try to stall him.

  ‘Look, could you call back? I have company.’

  ‘Company?’

  ‘Somebody here.’

  He sounds suspicious. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Thank you. Maybe in an hour or two? I’ll be at my desk.’

  But there’s scarcely enough time in which to think clearly. On the stroke of nine o’clock, Zulaika rings back, tenacious as a dog with a bone. I’ve had a quick shower, answering the phone in my dressing gown.

  ‘Mr Milius?’ Still pushy, still over-familiar. ‘As I explained earlier, I would like to meet you to discuss the disappearance of the Batasuna councillor Mikel Arenaza. It is a matter of great importance to the Basque region. What time would you be free today?’

  There’s no point in stalling him. His sort never give up. ‘What about later this morning?’

  ‘Perfect. I understand that you work for Endiom.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Perhaps he has already spoken to Julian.

  ‘Would their offices be suitable or do you have a different location that you prefer?’

  I tell him it would be better to meet nearer my house and set a time at Cascaras, the tortilleria where I eat breakfast on Ventura Rodriguez. He takes down the address and we arrange to meet at eleven.

  In the intervening period I buy most of the Spanish dailies. No new information has emerged about Arenaza. The story continues to feature prominently in the news pages and I find Zulaika’s by-line in Ahotsa. A Basque waiter I know in the barrio is able to translate the main points of his story, but it would still appear that the police have very few leads. At no point do any of the journalists reporting the disappearance mention Rosalia Dieste. I make a decision not to mention her name to Zulaika. However, our initial telephone conversations may have been interpreted as evasive, so it will be important to seem co-operative. To that end I get to Cascaras fifteen minutes early, find a quiet table near the back and offer him a wide, diplomatic smile when he walks in.

  ‘You must be Patxo.’

  ‘You must be Alec.’

  I have stood up, coming out from behind the table to shake his hand. Zulaika is wearing ironed jeans, cheap shoes and a scruffy tweed jacket, the clothes of a boy at boarding school on exeat.

  ‘How did you recognize me?’ he asks.

  ‘I didn’t. It just seemed likely that it was you. Your face fits your voice.’

  In truth, Zulaika is even younger than he sounded on the phone. I would put his age at no more than twenty-five, although he is wearing a wedding ring and going bald around the widow’s peak. He has the still, humourless face of a zealot and makes a point of continually meeting my eye. Something close to a deranged sense of entitlement is apparent in these initial moments. He tries to take control of the meeting by asserting a need to sit nearer the window, questioning the bright yellow decor with his eyes and squinting at the reproduction Miros and Kandinskys. Now that he’s got me where he wants me, he’s not even going to bother thanking me for giving up my time.

  ‘So, you’re in town investigating the disappearance?’

  ‘I am Ahotsa’s senior correspondent in Madrid,’ he replies, as if I should have known this already. ‘This is the story that I’m working on at present. How did you meet Mr Arenaza?’

  No preliminaries, no pause before what will almost certainly be a long and detailed interview. Zulaika has a spiral-bound notebook in front of him, two ballpoint pens and a shopping list of questions, in Basque, written in a neat hand on three pieces of lined A4. He also came in carrying a battered laptop briefcase which is currently leaning against my leg beneath the table. At some point I might move my foot, just so that it falls to the floor.

  ‘Well, I was introduced to him by my manager, Julian Church, at Endiom. They’re old friends. I was up in San Sebastian on business a couple of weeks ago and he put me in touch.’

  Zulaika doesn’t write down Julian’s name, which would suggest that he has already heard about him from Goena, or perhaps even conducted an interview. Diego, one of the waiters whom I see most days, approaches our table, greets me with a warm ‘Hola, Alec’ and asks what we’d like to order. Zulaika doesn’t look up. Sullenly he says, ‘ Cafe con leche y un vaso de agua,’ and then scratches his ear. You can tell a lot about people by the way they treat waiters.

  ‘Dos cafes con leche,’ I add, putting an emphasis on the ‘ dos’. Diego asks me how things are and, to create a good impression, I tell him that they’ve rarely been better.

  ‘And how many times did you speak to Arenaza before your meeting?’ Zulaika talks right over us. ‘Once? Twice?’

  ‘Just the once. I got his number from Julian’s secretary and called him from my hotel.’

  ‘And where were you staying?’

  ‘The Londres y de Inglaterra.’

  A pulse of contempt. ‘The big hotel on the Concha?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Any number of miserable prejudices flicker behind Zulaika’s eyes. The Londres y de Inglaterra is a bourgeois indulgence, a place of Castilian excess. Only a rich foreigner would stay there, a pijo, a guiri.

  ‘And did you communicate with him using email at any time?’

  Why ask that?


  ‘No. Just on the phone.’

  He writes this down and lights up a cigarette, blowing smoke across the table.

  ‘Tell me, Alec, how much did you know about Herri Batasuna before you met Mr Arenaza?’

  ‘Very little. We spoke of the ban on the party and the prospects of a ceasefire in the future. That was the purpose of my visit – to assess the viability of the Basque region for investment.’

  ‘Why would a person not want to invest in Euskal Herria?’ I had forgotten, of course, that Zulaika writes for a left-wing nationalist newspaper that often carries ETA declarations. To imply any criticism of the Basque region to such a person is tantamount to insult.

  ‘We actually concluded that people should invest there.’

  That shuts him up. Diego comes back and places two coffees and a glass of water on the table. Zulaika nods at him this time, but returns immediately to the list of questions.

  ‘Could you describe what happened during your meeting?’

  His cigarette has been resting in the ashtray, untouched, for about a minute, and is now blowing a curl of smoke into my eyes. Against my better judgment, I say, ‘Do you mind if we move that?’

  What?’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t particularly like cigarettes, especially this early in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I said, would you mind moving your cigarette? It’s blowing smoke in my face.’

  I might as well have asked Zulaika to spit-shine my shoes. He looks at the cigarette, back at me, and slowly grinds it out in the ashtray. The transformation from his earlier civility on the telephone is now complete.

  ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘There was no need to put it out.’

  He sniffs and goes back to his notes. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘The meeting. Could you describe the meeting?’

  ‘Sure.’ I would love just to stand up and walk out on this jumped-up little shit. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being pushed around or patronized by people younger than I am. Bland as possible, I reconstruct a half-baked account of the evening with Arenaza, deliberately avoiding any mention of the fact that he had seemingly lost faith with the armed struggle and was clearly at a juncture in his life. Zulaika can find that out for himself. As it is, he takes very few notes and perks up only when I mention the car park.