‘I’ll bet the vaults are haunted.’
‘What on earth interests you in such things, señor?’ Begoña asked.
‘I like to think there are things we don’t know about, knowledge that’s secret and out of the control of ordinary mortals.’
‘You mean a higher power?’ Begoña asked. ‘You should go to church more often.’
‘I went through the war hearing people beg God to help them.’ Guzmán shrugged. ‘Most of them died. They’d have been better asking a witch for a charm. That’s what I did.’
‘Some people think we’re witches.’ Nieves was sitting in shadow, her eyes so dark both iris and pupil appeared to merge.
‘Really?’ Guzmán sipped his coffee. ‘And are you?’
‘Hombre, if we were witches, there’d be no guardia civil in that cuartel, just a few toads in three-cornered hats,’ Begoña scoffed. ‘We respect the old ways.’
‘And what do the old ways tell you?’
‘They tell us about how to live in our land,’ Nieves cut in. ‘About the gods and creatures that lurk in the valleys. They show us the way time is carved into the landscape.’ She stared at him, her dark eyes luminous. ‘Do you realise, Señor Guzmán, that we call things by the names they were given when they were first created?’
‘And that isn’t witchcraft,’ Begoña added, ‘no matter what the Spanish think.’
‘Stop saying “Spanish” like that, as if it’s an insult,’ Guzmán said. ‘Officially, you’re Spanish.’
‘We know,’ Nieves said. ‘We’ve seen the posters on the walls in San Sebastián: “If you’re Spanish, speak Spanish.”’ She grinned. ‘So we speak Basque.’
‘You can see why I worry about her, can’t you?’ said Begoña. ‘She can’t keep her mouth shut. I keep telling her there’s no such thing as free speech in Spain.’
‘Absolutely,’ Guzmán agreed, thinking Begoña seemed a sensible woman.
‘Are you a detective, Señor Guzmán?’ Nieves asked, suddenly animated. ‘I read a book about a detective. Sherlock Holmes y el Sabueso de los Baskerville.’
‘In a way I am,’ Guzmán said. ‘I work in the Brigada Especial. We find missing people.’
‘I’m sure the comandante doesn’t have much time for reading.’ Begoña gave him a sharp look. ‘Not with all those people he has to find.’
‘Señor Guzmán is a friend of Franco,’ Nieves said. ‘He has a pass signed by him.’
‘Half the country are policemen these days,’ Begoña muttered. ‘And all of them are friends of Franco. He doesn’t stay in power because we love him.’
There was a sudden silence. Guzmán was astonished by her outburst. If she’d said that in his comisaría he would have knocked her to the floor. Begoña looked down, her cheeks glowing.
He broke the silence. ‘I hear General Torres has a hunting lodge out here?’
‘That’s right, it’s along the old road,’ Begoña said. ‘We do some work for his company from time to time. Farmers like us don’t earn much, so we make a bit extra by making souvenir paperweights. The Torres Company buy them from us and sell them in French seaside towns.’
‘Although it’s hardly worth the effort,’ Nieves added. ‘Torres don’t pay well.’
‘We do all right.’ Begoña turned to Guzmán. ‘General Torres’s daughter collects the figures every month. She has her own car, can you imagine that?’
He had imagined a great deal about Señorita Torres, though he refrained from saying so.
‘We leave the figures in a sack by the bridge,’ Nieves cut in. ‘And she leaves the money there in a tin. That way she doesn’t have to talk to us.’
‘Why don’t you talk to her?’
Begoña laughed, embarrassed. ‘She’s used to mixing with people in high society. She wouldn’t have much to say to the likes of us, we’re just peasants to her.’
‘And she mixes with the fascists,’ Nieves added with an outraged expression. ‘I heard that Franco’s her godfather.’
‘That’s just a rumour,’ Begoña said. She touched her hair, suddenly self-conscious. ‘She’s very beautiful, you know, she looks like that American actress.’ She looked at Nieves inquiringly. ‘Como se llama esa rubia?’
‘Graciela Kelly,’ said Nieves. ‘We saw her in Solo ante el Peligro, remember? Gary Cooper was in it as well.’
‘Kelly? So that’s how you say it?’ Guzmán said. ‘You speak English then, señorita?’
‘Goodness, no,’ Begoña said, flattered. ‘Just a few words I heard at the travelling cinema when it came to Oroitz.’
Guzmán remembered his mission. ‘I imagine you ladies know this region well?’
‘Better than most,’ Begoña agreed. Or it might have been Nieves, he wasn’t sure.
‘I need to take a patrol up onto the ridge. Is there an easy way up?’
Nieves looked at her aunt. Begoña shrugged. ‘That might work.’
‘What might work?’ Guzmán looked at them, puzzled. ‘She didn’t say anything.’
A faint light shimmered round them. Something to do with the lamp, he imagined.
‘La Escalera de Mari.’
He stared, unable to tell who was talking. ‘Who is this Mari?’
‘The goddess. She rules the storms, the land and what lies beneath.’
‘Sometimes she’s half woman, half tree.’
‘Stop that,’ Guzmán said, confused by their merging voices. ‘How do I get up there?’
The light around them faded.
‘It’s a narrow ravine,’ Nieves said. ‘It’s the route the smugglers use. You follow the track from the valley up the slopes, and eventually you reach the cliffs below the ridge. Then, you either climb them or you go through Mari’s Stair.’
‘Thanks, I’ll try that.’ Guzmán glanced at his watch. ‘I must go. I’ll be in Oroitz for a few days so perhaps I’ll see you again?’
Begoña smiled. ‘I do hope so, Señor Guzmán.’
Outside, he saw a straw doll nestling over the door, a safeguard against the evil eye.
‘I told you it would rain,’ Begoña said as the first hesitant drops pattered on the leaves. In the distance, a faint rattle of gunfire rolled over the hillside. Nieves and Begoña looked at one another, uneasy. ‘Dios mio,’ Begoña whispered, ‘it sounds just like the war.’
‘My corporal’s giving the men some target practice,’ he said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
He walked along the path into the trees, then stopped and lit a cigarette, thinking about Nieves, the dark fire of her eyes, the gestures she made with her head.
All that was a long time ago.
He was seeing ghosts.
OROITZ 1954, TORRES PABELLÓN DE CAZA
The Buick turned a wooded bend and Guzmán saw the hunting lodge, a sombre half-timbered building with a red-tiled roof. On the first floor, a couple of windows had been opened and the white curtains rose and fell in the slight breeze. The windows downstairs were still shuttered, though a pile of expensive luggage near the front door suggested Magdalena and her father had arrived.
He parked by the gate and walked down the gravel path. A black Hispano Suiza was parked on the far side of the garden and nearby he saw Magdalena’s bright red Pegaso. The latest model, he noticed, and paused to admire the sleek curves of a vehicle made for the racetrack.
As he turned to the front door, a sudden blast of the Pegaso’s horn made him look back. Magdalena waved to him from the driver’s seat. Her blonde hair was freshly styled, her clothes simple but very expensive; even he could tell that as he went to greet her, admiring the firm line of her calves as she slid from the low-slung roadster. ‘Did I surprise you? I was fiddling with the brake, that’s why you didn’t see me.’
‘It’s a very pleasant surprise, señorita,’ he said. As she came nearer, he noticed her delicate perfume and leaned closer.
‘What’s the matter, Leo, do I smell?’
‘I’m not complaining. Your perfume is delightful, Seño
rita Torres.’
‘I’m so glad, because a bottle of this costs more than you get paid in a month.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘For God’s sake, stop beating about the bush, will you?’ Magdalena said, suddenly impatient. ‘Surely you don’t really want to discuss perfume? The answer’s yes.’
‘Really?’ Guzmán moved closer. ‘What was the question?’
She sighed. ‘You were about to invite me to dinner tomorrow night.’
‘Of course I was. Where am I taking you?’
‘Casa Juanxto. It’s the best restaurant in town. Shall we meet at the Hotel María Cristina at eight thirty?’
‘I look forward to it.’
She lowered her voice. ‘Father’s in the house. Can you bear to say hello? It won’t take long, I promise. I have to get back to town for a business meeting soon.’
He paused, on the verge of refusing. ‘Would you like me to?’
‘Yes, just say hello, will you? The worst he can do is insult you.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Guzmán said, distracted by the movement of her skirt as she turned towards the front door.
Torres was old and feeble now, he thought. It was not worth wasting his anger on him, especially over something so long ago. But though the details were vague, the memory of his grievance against the general still burned, bright and insistent. Like a curse.
Magdalena led him down a long hall, decked out with a profusion of weapons, framed certificates and photographs. The typical decor of a military man. A door on the right was open and he followed her into a lounge decorated in various depressing shades of brown. A tan leather empire sofa faced the window.
The general was sitting in a wooden straight-backed chair by one of the shuttered windows and turned, locking his small angry eyes on Guzmán. Torres still had most of his hair, though it was thin and white now. He was fatter than Guzmán remembered.
‘Is that you, Guzmán?’ Torres asked, peering myopically at him.
Guzmán took a step closer. ‘Your eyesight’s gone, has it?’
‘Don’t forget I’m a general.’ Torres’s voice was like a petulant child.
‘You were a general,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Though not a very good one.’
‘And you were insubordinate,’ Torres snapped. ‘You never showed me any respect.’
‘That was because I never respected you.’
‘Excuse me, Comandante.’ Magdalena put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I must get Father settled so I can return to San Sebastián.’ She leaned closer to whisper, ‘Then you can go.’
Guzmán was cheered by that. ‘Can I help with those shutters?’
‘Esteban’s gone to get a screwdriver,’ Torres said. ‘They’ve been fastened too tightly.’
‘Esteban?’
‘Esteban Jiménez, our warehouse manager,’ Magdalena said. ‘He drove Father here and he’s going to stay with him.’ She smiled. ‘It’s most awfully modern, we’ve had an office made for Esteban with a desk and everything. I’ll just go and see where he is.’
‘This is what I’ve become,’ Torres muttered, giving a despairing look. ‘I can’t even run my own company, I have to let a woman do it.’ He peered at Guzmán with rheumy eyes. ‘I want Magda to stay here until after the harvest ball but she won’t listen. Tell her, will you? Make her see sense. She never listens to me.’
Guzmán gave him an evil look. ‘I’m not surprised, no one else does.’
Torres peered at the thin strips of light slanting in through the shutters. ‘It’s too dark in here. Why aren’t the shutters open?’
Magdalena returned, accompanied by a thin dark-haired man. His emaciated frame spoke of malnourishment or TB. Guzmán decided it might well be TB and held his breath as they shook hands.
‘I’ll open this shutter so you can get some sun on you, General,’ Jiménez said as he started to unscrew the brackets holding it closed.
‘In the absence of any staff, I suppose I’ll make the coffee,’ Magdalena sighed.
‘Shall I help you?’ Guzmán was already sick of Torres’s miserable company.
‘No, but you can help Esteban. I don’t think he’s accustomed to using tools.’
‘I’ve nearly got this screw out,’ Jiménez grunted. From his tone, Guzmán wondered if he was about to complain that he’d broken a nail.
‘Why don’t you move out of his way, General?’ Guzmán suggested. ‘He can work faster without you in the way.’
Torres lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I have trouble getting up.’
‘I can manage, honestly,’ Jiménez said. ‘You stay right where you are, General.’
He removed the last screw from the bracket and pulled the shutter open. Torres grunted, turning his face from the bright sunlight.
Behind him, Guzmán heard the rattle of cups and saucers as Magdalena brought their coffee. He looked through the window at the autumn colours on the hillside overlooking the house. A sudden metallic flash among the trees. Branches moving.
‘Coffee’s ready, gentlemen,’ Magdalena said.
Guzmán stared. Someone was up on the hillside. A mounted man, pinpoints of sunlight reflecting from the bridle of his horse.
Jiménez took the bracket and went to a door on the far side of the lounge.
Guzmán stared at the rider, half hidden in the trees, looking down through a telescope.
‘Coffee,’ Magdalena said, more emphatic this time. ‘I’m not the maid.’
It was not a telescope the rider was holding.
‘Biscuits if you want them,’ Magdalena said, impatiently. ‘I won’t ask again.’
Guzmán turned, shouting a warning.
A sharp crack at the window. Breaking glass. Tumbling echoes down the valley.
General Torres slumped sideways in his chair. Behind him, Guzmán heard crockery shatter on the floor. He twisted round and saw Magdalena, lying with her back against the sofa, arms limp. Broken cups and saucers were strewn around her, a growing stain extending over the carpet from the coffee pot. It was the blood he noticed most. Spattered over her face and hair, a dark slick extending from her chest to her waist. He started crawling towards her.
Her eyes opened. ‘Leo?’ A distant voice.
He scrambled to her side. ‘Where does it hurt?’
She pointed to the window. Guzmán turned and saw General Torres slumped in the faded armchair. A portion of his head was gone, most of it was splashed over Magdalena.
‘Stay here.’ He ran down the hall, working the slide on the Browning as he dashed through the front door, squinting in the bright sunlight.
A bullet hissed into the gravel path before he even heard the shot and Guzmán ducked behind a tree, shouting to Magdalena to stay inside. A moment later, a second shot whined off the garden wall in a mist of powdered stone.
And then, at the top of the hillside, the horse and rider appeared. Glancing out from behind the tree, Guzmán aimed the pistol with both hands, though he had no chance of hitting him at this range. The horseman raised the rifle above his head in a triumphal gesture before turning the horse into a grove of trees on the hilltop.
Guzmán went back into the house, raging. ‘I’ll kill that bastard,’ he grunted, shoving the Browning back into its holster.
Magdalena’s eyes widened, surprised by his anger. ‘At least you’re alive, Leo.’
‘How the fuck could a bandit know I was here? This mission is secret.’
‘I have no idea, but I’d be grateful if you would temper your language, Comandante.’
Guzmán nodded. ‘Sorry.’
He took out two Bisontes, put them in his lips and lit them. ‘Let’s go outside,’ he said, giving her one of the cigarettes.
She took a long drag and coughed. ‘We’d better go out the back. The rear of the house isn’t overlooked.’
He followed her through the kitchen into a small herb garden. They sat side by side on a low stone wall in silence. Magdalena reache
d out and took his hand. Guzmán looked down at the whiteness of her skin and her crimson nails against his big sun-browned fists. An unusual sensation. Had he not been so angry, he could almost have enjoyed it.
Magdalena touched the congealing blood on her blouse. ‘Papa’s dead,’ she whispered as if he might have doubted it.
Accustomed to death, Guzmán was much less used to regretting it. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be a hypocrite, you hated him. I heard it in your voice. Mind you, so did I. He tried to do something to me when I was thirteen. I never forgave him for that.’
He decided not to ask. ‘He’s gone. There’s no use wasting energy hating him now. ’
‘I’ll direct my energies in whatever direction I wish,’ Magdalena snapped. ‘And even though I own my father’s company now, I’ll never forgive him.’
Guzmán was tempted to say the same thing, though since he would have had to explain his reasons, he did not. ‘How long had you been here when I arrived?’ he asked, reverting to being a policeman.
A vague shrug. ‘Ten minutes, perhaps. Esteban unlocked the door and helped Father into the lounge. He put him in the chair by the window and then went to get a screwdriver so he could open the shutters.’
Guzmán’s eyes narrowed. ‘Was that your father’s favourite chair?’
‘No. The room was stuffy since the lodge hadn’t been used since July. Esteban said something about Papa getting some fresh air.’
‘Did he.’ It was not a question. ‘Where is Jiménez anyway?’
‘I think he’s probably cowering in the bushes. He isn’t very brave. In fact he’s...’
‘A coward?’
‘One might prefer to say gentle, Leo.’
Guzmán snorted. ‘You mean he’s a maricón?’
‘Indeed. Papa was surprisingly tolerant about it.’
Because he was weak, Guzmán thought. Too weak to maintain a decent prejudice.
She took a last pull on her cigarette and threw it away. ‘Should we call the police?’
The Exile Page 13
