The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  He was a big bastard, Guzmán noticed. Still, so was he.

  ‘You’d better hear this,’ the corporal said.

  ‘I told you to throw them out.’ The sargento let go of the girl and she slumped against the wall, her eyes bright, though not with tears. She seemed to be looking for something sharp.

  ‘I’m questioning this prisoner,’ the sargento said. ‘And I don’t like being interrupted, so piss off, unless you want the same treatment.’

  ‘What? You’re going to feel my tits as well?’ Guzmán sneered.

  ‘Listen to this, Sarge.’ The corporal’s voice rose in disbelief. ‘“His Excellency, Head of State, Caudillo by the Grace of God, Generalísimo Don Francisco Franco requests that the holder of this document, Comandante Leopoldo Guzmán, of the Special Brigade, be afforded any assistance said officer may request of any public servant whether civil or military. Any order or instruction from said officer may not be countermanded by a commissioned officer below the rank of coronel and even then said officer must first communicate with General HQ to obtain approval. Further, be aware that the above mentioned Don Leopoldo Guzmán is authorised to bear firearms at all times.”’ The corporal stared at the sergeant. ‘It’s signed by Franco himself.’

  ‘Which means,’ Guzmán growled, ‘you two ladies start behaving in a proper manner or I’ll take appropriate measures.’ He reached into his jacket for a cigarette. ‘But suit yourselves, I’ve always enjoyed firing squads.’

  ‘A sus ordenes, mi Comandante.’ The corporal snapped to attention.

  The sargento was less impressed. ‘You might be something in Madrid but this is my territory and things are done my way here.’

  ‘This land doesn’t belong to you Spaniards,’ the young woman cut in. ‘It’s Basque and always has been.’

  ‘Quiet, bitch.’ León drew back his fist.

  Guzmán sprang forward, seizing the sargento’s wrist and twisting his arm to pull him away from the girl. León tried to break free but he was too slow and Guzmán slammed him back against the wall before driving a couple of hard punches into his belly. Gasping for breath, the sargento looked up just as Guzmán’s head-butt hit him in the face, sending him backwards, scattering piles of papers from the desk as he fell. He lay on the floor, clutching his nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood. ‘Shoot the fucker, Corporal.’

  Caught between fear of Guzmán and fear of his sargento, the corporal made a half-hearted attempt to draw his pistol. Something clicked behind him and his hand froze before the gun left the holster.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Ochoa said, his pistol aimed at the corporal’s head.

  The corporal raised his hands. He gave the sargento an embarrassed shrug.

  ‘Useless fuck,’ León spluttered.

  Guzmán frowned as he looked down at the sergeant. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  ‘In the war.’ León’s teeth were red with blood. ‘You were commanding those Moors.’

  ‘And you were wiping General Torres’s arse, I recall,’ Guzmán said, ‘with your tongue.’

  ‘At least I didn’t spend my days with a bunch of heathens,’ León sneered.

  Guzmán stamped on León’s crotch. The sargento howled and rolled onto his side, clutching his groin. ‘You’re finished here,’ Guzmán said. ‘Pack your bags.’

  León struggled to his knees and spat blood onto the floor. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I just did,’ Guzmán said. ‘And start referring to me by rank, cabrón.’

  The sargento’s pig-like eyes narrowed. ‘Sí, mi Comandante.’

  Guzmán noticed the young woman standing by the door, watching events with interest. ‘You’d better come with me, señorita.’ She didn’t blink. I’m losing my touch.

  As he went into the corridor, Guzmán called to Ochoa. ‘Go to the radio room and arrange the sargento’s immediate transfer.’

  Guzmán took the young woman outside. They stood looking at the spectacular view of the valley and the mountains, listening to the noise of the flag rippling in the breeze.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s beautiful here, señor?’ she asked.

  Guzmán paused for a moment before answering. ‘No.’

  Inside the cuartel, León was throwing his things into a kitbag. Some of the men gathered round, watching him pack. ‘It’s too bad, Sarge,’ one said. ‘You had a good thing going here.’

  León turned on him, his face red with anger as he slung his kitbag over his shoulder. ‘That bastard won’t be here long. They can’t hack it, those Madrid types.’

  ‘Why is he here?’

  León tapped the side of his swollen nose with a finger. ‘That’s for you to find out, Chavez. And if he gets any messages, I’d like to know about them too.’

  ‘There’d be something in it for me, would there, Sargento?’

  León hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. ‘Isn’t there always?’ He walked to the door rubbing his injured crotch. ‘He’ll be sorry he messed with me.’

  Guzmán took out his cigarette case and offered the young woman a cigarette. When she refused, he lit one, observing her through a wreath of smoke. She was about eighteen or nineteen, pretty, too, her oval face framed by sleek black hair. But it was her eyes he noticed most. They were like the sea before a storm.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that, señor?’

  ‘You seem familiar – I wondered if we’d met before?’

  She smiled. ‘We Basques all look alike. The hare face, we call it.’

  ‘That must be it. Do you live in the village, señorita?’

  ‘I live there.’ She pointed down the valley to a distant farmhouse.

  ‘You live with your parents, I suppose?’

  ‘With my aunt. My parents are dead.’ She looked at him through strands of wind-blown hair. ‘You Spaniards killed them in your war.’

  In Madrid, he would have slapped her for that. ‘We’re all Spanish,’ he said. ‘One Spain, united and free. Haven’t you heard the party members chanting that at their meetings?’

  She looked at him, amused. ‘Monkeys will do anything for a banana.’

  ‘I think you should go home to your aunt, niña. And try thinking before you speak in future, otherwise you’ll get yourself into some real trouble.’

  ‘Don’t call me niña,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m a woman, not a little girl.’

  ‘I think the expression you’re looking for is “muchísimas gracias”,’ Guzmán said. ‘I just got you out of a nasty situation.’

  ‘Eskerrik asko.’ She ignored his frown at the Basque words. ‘Why did you help me?’

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t stand bullies. How come the sargento detained you?’

  ‘I said something in Euskara about him being a pig.’

  ‘That was foolish, don’t you know it’s illegal to speak Basque?’

  ‘Many things are illegal that shouldn’t be. And there was the brujería as well.’

  ‘What witchcraft?’

  ‘We study the old ways. Some Spaniards think it’s anti-Catholic.’

  ‘You should be careful. Not everyone understands such things.’ He looked up at the mountain and peered at a row of dark holes in the steep hillside overlooking the road. ‘What are those?’ he asked, pointing. ‘Caves?’

  ‘It’s the Fortaleza de Zumalacárregui. It was built in the eighteen thirties during the First Carlist War. They built it to stop the enemy from using the road.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Nieves smiled. ‘They built a new road.’ Her face brightened. ‘Why don’t you visit us one morning, Señor Guzmán? My aunt’s a marvellous cook.’

  ‘I’ll try and drop by,’ Guzmán said, liking the sound of home cooking. ‘But what’s your name? I can’t call without knowing who I’m visiting.’

  ‘Nieves Arestigui. Para servirle.’ She held out her hand, suddenly formal.

  ‘And I’m at your service.’ He took her hand. ‘In return for me pulling that sargento off
you, would you do me a small favour?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Nieves inclined her head to one side. ‘I won’t tell anyone about the man from Madrid who’s a friend of Franco.’ A cheeky grin. ‘Most will know soon anyway. People round here are terrible gossips and Sargento León isn’t renowned for his discretion.’

  ‘Sargento León is packing his bags.’

  ‘Don’t you know what the shepherds say? Squash a tick and another takes its place. Agur, Señor Guzmán.’ She walked away down the rocky track to the valley, her black hair fluttering round her shoulders like a raven.

  Guzmán stared after her. A sudden faint memory, the sound of boots on stone.

  Corporal Ochoa was waiting by the entrance to the cuartel and Guzmán went to join him, pulling his jacket tight against the breeze.

  ‘Have they got clean bedding in there?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘They’ve got bedding, though it’s none too clean.’ Ochoa fidgeted for a moment. ‘That young lady, sir. Don’t you think—’

  ‘They all look the same round here,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘And I told you before, we don’t talk about those things.’ He pushed his face towards Ochoa. ‘I don’t usually have to repeat my instructions to fucking corporals.’

  They walked up the track in silence. Guzmán saw the sunset staining the sky over the mountain and lifted his binoculars. ‘There’s something up there,’ he muttered, peering at the darkening slopes. He tensed, quickly focusing on the ridge. ‘What the fuck?’

  High above them, a line of strangely dressed horsemen were moving along the ridge. Guzmán stared at the profusion of improbable headgear: plumed hats, spiked Prussian helmets and military kepis, great knee-boots and frock coats, swords hanging from their belts. Bright ribbons plaited into the manes and tails of their horses. And then, as the sun slid below the horizon, the detail of the ridge and the horsemen merged into the night, leaving only the obscure bulk of the mountain outlined for a moment against the dying light.

  VILLARREAL, 7.30 P.M., 11 MARCH 1937

  She cradled the baby as she talked to the Poet. Being a poet, he was naturally romantic and it had taken very little time for him to fall for her. That was not unusual, given her beauty, rare in an army whore. Most men were glad to have her for the short time their money bought them in her bed, but not the Poet. He was more enamoured by her allegiance to the Cause: it had been his idea for her to give up whoring and join the militia. After the war, they would forget what she had done, he said. Things would be different then, they would shed the old identities forced on them by the class struggle and adopt new ones more suited to the brave new world that would be built upon the ashes of fascism.

  At first, she had been enchanted by his idealism and his exotic English accent, though his bourgeois prudishness irritated her. Where others had clamoured for her favours, the Poet kept his distance. Love was an arbitrary and self-indulgent distraction, he argued, a waste of vital energies better spent on preparing for the revolution.

  Though she indulged him, she found his opinions tenuous and inconsistent, built as they were on theories and dogma, though she did not say so. That was not the only thing she kept from him. There was another, younger man in her heart. The young soldier who queued patiently for his turn with her in the year before the war. Sometimes she let him stay longer, and they would talk in low voices about a future neither of them could envisage.

  She abandoned whoring as war became inevitable, choosing to join a militia to play her part in the defeat of fascism. A while later, the young man and his regiment were despatched to Badajoz. When the city fell, she assumed he was dead or a prisoner.

  It was then she volunteered for the undercover mission, posing as a peasant in a woodsman’s hut in the mountains, observing the movements of the fascists and relaying them to the Republican command. It was a quiet isolated existence, though it was only when she found she was pregnant that she realised just how isolated she was. In the end, she and the baby survived. And she intended to survive now, as long as the teniente did the right thing and helped them. Not as if he had any choice in the matter.

  It was dark when a nurse came down into the musty shadows of the cellar. She held whispered conversation with the Moors, mentioning the general’s name several times.

  The woman looked up from the baby, her face pale as the nurse held out her arms for the child. A routine medical check, the nurse said, the baby would be back in an hour.

  She fought hard to keep the child, though it was always a losing battle. Her male comrades shouted support, straining against their bonds impotently as the nurse bustled away up the stairs holding the child. After a moment, one of the Moors ambled after her.

  The woman tried to follow the nurse but the Moorish soldiers held her back and bound her to the chair. Her comrades heard her cries but stayed quiet, shamed by their helplessness. Even the Poet had no words for an event like this.

  At the top of the stairs, the light faded into night. Far off, they heard the sound of singing and revelry. A party of some sort. And then shouting, growing nearer, the sound of boots as someone came down the stone steps. A dark bulky figure, a curved sword glinting in the darkness. For a moment the dank air was tense and silent.

  It was not silent for long.

  6

  MADRID, JULY 2010, GUARDIA CIVIL LABORATORIO FORENSE NO. 5

  Mendez pulled the sheet from the dead girl’s body. An emaciated figure, a gaunt face framed by greasy blonde hair. Savage knife wounds to her chest and abdomen.

  ‘Joder, look at that.’ Mendez shook her head slowly. ‘The bastard nearly gutted her.’

  Galíndez finished putting on her gloves. ‘Who did it, her pimp?’

  ‘No surprise there.’ Mendez put a wad of forms on a desk by the wall. ‘When you’ve done the samples can you fill these in? You’ll have to leave most of the details blank because all we know so far is that she was called Zora Ivanova. How old would you say she is?’

  ‘Fifteen, sixteen, maybe? She’s very skinny.’ Galíndez leaned forward to examine the body. ‘And she was using. See? Track marks on both arms. Same old pattern, probably got her hooked and then forced her to go on the game to pay for her next hit. And his, most likely.’

  ‘You could write the script,’ Mendez agreed. ‘Hey, thanks for coming in like this at such short notice. What time did you get back?’

  ‘Late,’ Galíndez said, inspecting needle marks between the girl’s toes. ‘As in so late I’m pissed off I had to come in here first thing.’

  ‘What if I buy you a coffee? Will that get you off my case?’

  ‘You don’t get off that easily.’ Galíndez smiled. ‘It’s got to be a big one.’

  ‘Whatever you like, doctora. How do you want it?’

  ‘Strong and black, please.’

  ‘Hey, that’s me you’re talking about, Ana.’

  Galíndez looked up from the corpse. ‘Sí, and too hot to handle.’

  ‘So my husband says. I’ll get the coffee, you two talk amongst yourselves.’

  As Mendez went to the vending machine, Galíndez began collecting samples for the DNA test, thinking how strange it was that the presence of a dead body created a sudden need for humour. It might seem odd to an outsider, but it was their way of dealing with the fact that someone had got this frail young woman hooked on heroin before forcing her to work the streets. And then, for some reason, he’d butchered her. If you didn’t laugh you’d have to cry. That was what they said in the locker room. And in the guardia, no one wanted to be seen crying. That was fine by her.

  By the time Mendez got back with the coffee, Galíndez had the tissue samples labelled and ready for the lab. She’d even begun the paperwork, Mendez noticed.

  ‘Leave the forms,’ Mendez said. ‘Just sign them and I’ll do the rest. It’s only fair.’ She paused. ‘Hey, the boss said something about you being on TV this Friday?’

  ‘I’ve got to do a five-minute interview with RTVE. I have to say I’m looking forward to going ba
ck to work, that sort of thing.’

  Mendez noticed a box in the corner of the lab. ‘Is that’s why you’ve been shopping?’

  Galíndez nodded. ‘I thought I should look smart for the interview.’ She opened the box to show Mendez the boots nestling in a bed of tissue paper.

  Mendez whistled, seeing the name on the box. ‘Hostia, how much were these?’

  ‘Far too much.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ Mendez watched as she pulled the boots on. ‘They look great, Ana.’

  ‘They do, but I don’t think I can walk in them.’ Galíndez took a few careful steps, noticing the staccato tap of the heels. ‘Dios mio, they’re really noisy, aren’t they?’

  ‘Really, really noisy,’ Mendez agreed. ‘You’d think for all that money they could quieten them down or something.’ She pointed to the plastic bag lying on the floor alongside the shoebox. ‘What else did you get?’

  ‘This?’ Galíndez lifted the bag and took out the sword. ‘It was at the site of the killing up in the Basque country.’

  ‘You look like Sinbad the Sailor,’ Mendez said. ‘It’s a scimitar, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so.’ Galíndez held out the sword so Mendez could see the inscription. ‘See?’

  Mendez saw the name stamped on the blade. ‘It’s Guzmán’s?’

  ‘Seems so. And there were the skeletons of three people he’d killed with this. In fact, I’ve got them in my car boot. I don’t suppose...?’

  ‘Not again,’ Mendez groaned. ‘We’ve got problems accommodating the recently deceased without you bringing in the remains of people who died seventy-odd years ago.’

  Galíndez narrowed her eyes. ‘I just thought, seeing as how you owe me...’

  Mendez threw up her hands. ‘Not the evil eye, Ana, I give in. There’s a bit of room left in the basement. I’ll sort it out for you later. And then we’re quits, right?’