The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  As he ran through the slanting rain, he saw a plume of smoke rising above the house where the prisoners were held. A shell had blown a hole in the wall of the building at ground level and men were bustling about in confusion, shouting that someone had escaped. Ochoa listened avidly, thinking perhaps it was the woman who had got free. Someone pushed him aside and he saw the big private who guarded the general’s tent bellowing instructions to someone. As Ochoa listened, he realised the man was referring to the prisoners as corpses.

  Puzzled, Ochoa looked at his watch. The killings were supposed to take place after eight o’clock and it was only a quarter to. Suddenly chilled, he hurried into the cellar. The air was thick with the acrid smell of fear. And another odour, dark and earthy: the stench of fresh blood. Halfway down the steps he paused and raised the camera quickly, determined to capture the horror of the moment, trying not to see the subjects illuminated in the momentary brilliance of the flash.

  At the bottom of the steps he found a lantern and lit it, throwing weak light over the dingy cellar. Something bitter and sharp rose in his throat as he stared at the bodies in front of him. Vast, open wounds, a decapitation. Missing limbs. Everywhere, the glint of blood, thick and black in the lantern light. Ochoa stared, unable to look away from the carnage. Someone had hacked the helpless prisoners to pieces.

  And then he saw her, still bound to the overturned chair. Saw the terrible wounds to her neck, the deep vicious gashes slashed across her chest, the arm almost severed at the shoulder. And below the chair, almost lost in the darkness, a pale round oval, resting in a pool of blood. Ochoa looked away quickly, unable to bring himself to look at the child’s corpse.

  As he struggled for control, the woman’s eyes opened, white orbs against the dark mask of blood that was her face. Something grey and pink protruded from a huge cleft in the top of her head. She shuddered with involuntary spasms as she tried to speak. Ochoa leaned closer to hear her words. ‘Guzmán did this.’

  They were her last words and Ochoa fled.

  Outside, the air was fresh and damp. Something glittered in the darkness and Ochoa saw Guzmán a few metres away, the curved sword gripped in his hand, the blade streaked with dark stains. Ochoa took a step forward and stumbled over the body lying in front of him, scrambling away in horror as he saw the nurse’s uniform with the yolk and arrows of the Falange, soaked in blood from the savage cut across the woman’s throat. And, clutched tight in her dead hand, the baby’s stained blanket.

  Ochoa got to his feet and stared at Guzmán. Someone was screaming. Ochoa realised it was him. And then, as his words were cut off in a torrent of scalding bile, he turned and ran.

  7

  OROITZ, OCTOBER 1954, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL

  It was an hour after dawn as the civil guards stumbled out of their grim concrete cuartel, unused to being roused from their beds at such an early hour. Guzmán and Ochoa watched the men line up, their tricornes and oilskin capes dark against the pale sky. A moment later, Guzmán’s bellowed instructions echoed over the sloping hillside.

  ‘The corporal and I are pearls before swine,’ he shouted. ‘In case you have trouble working it out, that means you’re the swine.’ He strode along the line as if looking for someone to punch. ‘I’ve got news for you: we’re going after El Lobo.’

  The men shuffled unhappily. The comandante was talking about combat. That was not something they were accustomed to.

  ‘We’re going to make life difficult for him,’ Guzmán continued. ‘He must have hiding places for his supplies up there. Well, not for much longer. You’re going to find them and destroy them.’ He gave the men a piercing glare. ‘Any questions?’

  A hand went up, somewhat uncertain. ‘How will we find these hiding places, sir?’

  ‘With your fucking eyes, imbécil, how do think?’ Guzmán shouted. ‘Old huts, barns, caves, holes in the fucking ground. Jesús, do I have to spell it out?’

  The man shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t help, I can’t read, sir.’

  Guzmán sighed. Nothing about these men suggested a fighting force ready to take on a hardened bandit in his own territory.

  Another hand went up. ‘What’s your name, private?’

  ‘Quintana, sir.’ The man shuffled uncomfortably. ‘What happens if we run into El Lobo?’

  ‘We kill him,’ Guzmán said. He waited in vain for a positive response.

  ‘From now on, everyone pulls their weight,’ he continued. ‘You got away with that shit when León was here, but you’re under military discipline now. Who knows what that means?’

  A row of blank faces. The guardia provided meals and accommodation and the chance to take a bribe now and again. These men had little knowledge of rules and regulations.

  Met by their silence, Guzmán answered the question. ‘It means if you disobey an order, or show cowardice in the face of the enemy, you’ll be shot. And what’s more, it’ll be me who shoots you. That clear?’

  If it was not, no one said so. Most of the squad were looking at the ground.

  ‘I’ll take that emphatic silence as a yes,’ Guzmán went on. ‘When we run into El Lobo, we engage him, kill him and hand over his body to the top brass. Is that understood or shall I draw you a picture?’

  Reluctantly, Quintana raised his hand. ‘Thing is, sir, we’re not the best of shots. We’re only issued five rounds apiece each month.’

  ‘Madre mía,’ Guzmán muttered. ‘Corporal, I want these men issued with the regulation amount of ammunition.’

  Quintana’s hand went up. ‘You again?’ Guzmán’s voice was getting louder now.

  ‘We’ve never had any proper training with our rifles, sir. They only send the worst troopers up here as a punishment.’

  ‘Then you’re no longer the worst troopers in the guardia,’ Guzmán said. ‘I forbid it. Corporal Ochoa will instruct you in the use of weapons and basic combat procedure for the next couple of days. By then, I expect you to be capable of dealing with a solitary bandit.’ His eyes widened as Quintana’s hand went up. ‘Joder, what now?’

  ‘It’s not just El Lobo up there. There are things in those mountains best left alone.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Guzmán snorted, exasperated. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the Çubiry, sir.’

  ‘Çubiry?’ Guzmán frowned. ‘I thought they were a shipping company?’

  Quintana swallowed, hard. ‘They’re more than that, Comandante. The family’s had a reputation for being smugglers and cut-throats for over a hundred years.’

  Guzmán frowned. ‘Do they wear stupid hats and ride horses?’

  ‘That’s them.’ Quintana nodded.

  ‘We saw them last night, riding around on that ridge like they owned it. Why haven’t you been up there after them if they’re smugglers?’

  ‘We don’t mess with them,’ Quintana said. ‘They’re a rough lot.’

  Guzmán heard the others muttering agreement. ‘Shut the fuck up. You carry out this mission or you’ll face a court-martial. And you know what? You’d have General Mellado as the judge.’ He saw fear on their faces. ‘Naturally he’ll have you shot within the hour.’

  Cowed, the men sensibly refrained from any further questions.

  ‘Now that I’ve inspired these gentlemen, I’ll leave them to you, Corporal,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’m going to drive down the valley to take a look round. I’ll be back this afternoon and I’ll expect to see these morons have made some progress.’

  Ochoa saluted. ‘A sus ordenes.’

  Standing at the back of the squad, Chávez narrowed his eyes as they watched Guzmán going up the steep track to the village. ‘El Lobo,’ he whispered to the men on either side of him. ‘Let’s see what Sargento León makes of that.’

  The whispering stopped as Ochoa took a rifle from a man at the front and held it up. ‘This, gentlemen, is the Mauser 1893 model,’ he said, peering at them through his thick lenses. ‘The rifle that lost us an empire.’ He looked at them disparagingly. ‘An appropri
ate weapon for you lot, I’d say.’

  OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

  Guzmán parked by an ancient stone bridge. On the far side, an old wooden sign pointed into the woods on either side of the stream: Lauburu Farm. He followed the dirt path through dappled shadows thrown by a line of ancient trees flanking the stream. Sudden shards of light danced off the water, flickering over the mossy rocks on the riverbank.

  He emerged from the wood and crossed a dirt track towards a white farmhouse, its walls reinforced with beams of dark timber, topped with a low-angled roof of red clay tiles. Though the garden was empty, he had a feeling of being watched and looked back the way he’d come, seeing no one. When he turned to the house again, Nieves Arestigui was standing in the doorway watching him.

  ‘Kaixo, Señor Guzmán.’ A shy smile. ‘Ongi etorri.’

  Another woman appeared at Nieves’ side. In her thirties, she had the same almond face and black hair of her niece, though with a more interesting figure, Guzmán observed.

  ‘Buenos días.’ She shook his hand with gentle formality. ‘I’m Nieves’ aunt, Begoña Arestigui. You must be the policeman sent to catch El Lobo?’

  ‘Nieves has a strange way of keeping a secret,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘I only told her what happened with Sargento León,’ said Nieves. ‘In any case, I did tell you nothing stays secret for long in a place like this.’

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ Begoña pointed to a wooden table by the front door. ‘We’d better make the most of this weather while we can.’

  Guzmán looked up at the sky. ‘I’m sure it will last a while longer, señora. There’s not a cloud in sight.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Begoña insisted. ‘It’s going to rain. I can smell it.’

  Guzmán saw only a few faint clouds covering the taller peaks of the distant mountains. Begoña was wrong but he wasn’t going to contradict her in her own home.

  A tallow-haired lad was walking up the track. He saw them and gave them an awkward wave. ‘Kaixo, Señorita Begoña, Kaixo, Señorita Nieves.’

  ‘One of the family?’ Guzmán asked, watching the young man disappear into the trees.

  ‘That’s Patxi Gabilondo,’ Begoña said. ‘He does odd jobs for us.’ She smiled. ‘He’s in love with Nieves.’

  ‘Señor Guzmán doesn’t want to know that,’ Nieves muttered.

  ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ Begoña asked. ‘A bocadillo de filete and a glass of home-made cider?’

  ‘Much appreciated.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Walking gives a man an appetite.’

  Begoña got up. ‘Nieves, talk to the señor while I get him some food.’

  Casually, Guzmán watched the movement of Begoña’s hips as she went into the house. A fine-looking woman. Strong but not hefty like many farm girls.

  ‘So you think people in the village noticed my visit to the cuartel?’

  ‘What do you expect?’ Nieves said. ‘No one within twenty kilometres has a motor car, let alone one like yours. And you gave Mikel Aingeru a lift. He’s not exactly tight-lipped.’ She looked at him, curious. ‘When you saved me from Sargento León, you had a pass signed by Franco. Does that mean you’re important?’

  He shrugged. ‘I used to think so.’

  ‘So you’re not important?’ A tinge of disappointment in her voice.

  Guzmán scowled. ‘It’s hard to say at the moment. Does it matter?’

  ‘Life is very dull here, Señor Guzmán,’ Nieves said. ‘If you were made minister of war or something in a year or two, I’d be able to tell people I knew you when you were just a policeman. People round here like interesting gossip.’

  ‘“Just a policeman”?’ Guzmán said. ‘I’m a comandante. There’s no “just” about that.’

  Nieves tilted her head to one side and smiled. ‘I knew you were important.’

  Begoña returned with a bottle of cider and some glasses. Leaving Nieves to pour the drinks, she went back into the kitchen. Guzmán watched again, paying furtive attention to the sway of her hips. A couple of minutes later, he smelled frying steak and the hard tang of garlic. A good-looking woman who could cook. Hostia.

  ‘Nieves? It’s about to rain,’ Begoña called. ‘Better bring Señor Guzmán indoors.’

  ‘Bai berehala.’ Nieves saw his expression. ‘I know, comandante. Speaking Basque is illegal.’ She crossed her wrists and held them out, as if waiting for the handcuffs.

  ‘Don’t push your luck,’ Guzmán said. As he followed her indoors, he smiled to himself: there was not a rain cloud in sight and the only smell was that of frying steak.

  Nieves showed him to a seat in Grandfather Arestigui’s study. The appearance of the room, with its antiquated furniture and dark wood cabinets filled with mounted butterflies and pressed flowers, suggested Grandpa was expected back at any minute.

  Guzmán saw a row of small rural scenes. ‘Did your abuelo paint these?’

  ‘The oil paintings are his,’ Nieves said. ‘Those are mine.’

  She pointed to three paintings on the far side of the fireplace. Guzmán expected light, airy depictions of grassy slopes and wild flowers, the distracted whimsy of a young woman’s mind. He was wrong. Nieves’ paintings were dark statements of brooding threat: angry troubled skies beneath which skeletal figures trudged across a harsh terrain, unaware of the clawed hands reaching towards them from the ground.

  ‘You paint very well, señorita.’

  ‘Grandfather was a real painter,’ Nieves said, suddenly shy. ‘I just paint what I feel.’

  Since the imagination of a young woman was alien territory, he refrained from asking what those feelings might be.

  Nieves interrupted his thoughts. ‘So you’re here to kill El Lobo?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Guzmán asked, suspiciously. ‘I never said anything about El Lobo.’

  Nieves shrugged. ‘There’s nothing else to bring an important man like you up here.’

  ‘I may not kill him,’ Guzmán lied. ‘I might arrest him.’

  ‘But then he’d try to escape and you’d shoot him. The guardia do that, I’ve heard.’

  ‘You’re very knowledgeable about police procedures.’ He took a sip of cider and smacked his lips. ‘That’s good stuff.’

  ‘Listen,’ Nieves leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘you know when you called Begoña “señora”?’ Guzmán nodded, taking another large swig of cider.

  ‘Well, she isn’t.’ Nieves glanced towards the door to make sure she couldn’t be overheard. ‘She’s Señorita Arestigui, so there’s no husband to catch you looking at her arse as you did a few minutes ago, though you should be more subtle. She’d be shocked.’ A gentle laugh. ‘She’s not very worldly about men, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And you are?’ He laughed. ‘Keep that up and it’ll be your arse that gets kicked.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Begoña asked, as she put Guzmán’s plate on the table. His mouth watered as he saw the large slice of rare beef smothered in soft red peppers and garlic.

  ‘Señor Guzmán has a steady job in the policía,’ Nieves said. ‘He probably earns at least five hundred pesetas a week and he likes your cooking.’

  ‘Is she trying to marry me off?’ Begoña laughed, blushing. ‘She interviews any man who comes near this farm to see if he’s a potential suitor.’

  ‘If I left it to you, we’d never know how suitable they were,’ Nieves said. ‘I’ll get Señor Guzmán’s coffee.’

  ‘She has a very inquisitive nature,’ Begoña said after Nieves had gone.

  ‘She’d make a good policeman,’ Guzmán said. ‘Though it’s not a job for women.’

  ‘The very idea.’ Begoña smiled. They both laughed at the absurdity of it.

  ‘So her mother died in the war?’

  Begoña nodded. ‘My sister was the black sheep of the family, I’m afraid. She fought for the Republic and unfortunately she died for it.’

  ‘And you brought her up after Arantxa died?’

  Begoña stared at him. �
��How do you know my sister’s name, comandante?’

  A sudden, strained silence.

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘Nieves mentioned it yesterday, when we met.’

  ‘Of course.’ Begoña nodded. ‘She never knew her, poor thing. She’s a good girl. Usually, anyway.’

  ‘Usually?’ Guzmán smiled.

  ‘It’s nothing really, Señor Guzmán. ‘But she has a temper. At school, one of the boys bullied her. She waited for him on the way home from school and broke his nose.’

  ‘Good for her.’ Guzmán nodded approvingly. ‘How old is she? I find it hard to tell a young woman’s age these days.’

  ‘I was born on the twenty-fourth of March 1936,’ Nieves said. ‘So I’m eighteen. Are you investigating me, Señor Guzmán?’

  Guzmán turned, surprised to find her standing behind him with his coffee. He’d never heard a sound as she’d come in. ‘Not at all, señorita, unless you’re a criminal?’

  She stared at him, narrowing black eyes. ‘I speak Basque. That’s criminal, isn’t it?’

  Begoña looked at her niece in horror. ‘For heaven’s sake, Nieves. Be quiet.’

  ‘Just don’t speak it in front of me,’ Guzmán muttered. He changed the subject. ‘Didn’t you tell me Sargento León objected to you practising witchcraft?’

  ‘Among other things.’ Nieves nodded. ‘Does that bother you as well, Señor Guzmán?’

  ‘Not at all, I have an interest in the occult. My comisaría was built on the site of an old convent used by the Inquisition.’

  ‘How horrible,’ said Begoña.

  Nieves leaned forward, suddenly interested. ‘Is it haunted?’

  He nodded. ‘Possibly, I haven’t explored all of the vaults yet, but I’ve heard things.’

  ‘Vaults?’ Nieves was wide-eyed. ‘Are the instruments of torture still there?’

  ‘They are,’ Guzmán said with a certain pride. ‘Though it’s all sealed up. Only a few people go down there.’ And I’m the only one who comes back up. ‘They burned the nuns at the stake,’ he added. ‘Apparently they were worshipping God, but it was the wrong god. That was when the Inquisition stepped in.’