The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘You mean they get hurt?’ Rough stuff, he imagined, boisterous games played by men who didn’t know their own strength.

  ‘I mean they get killed,’ said Magdalena. ‘That’s why Papá wanted me out of the way.’

  Guzmán thought about it for a moment. ‘That would be a good idea, I’d say.’

  She listened to his footsteps as he went downstairs, hearing the loud impact of the front door as it closed behind him. Then she slipped from the bed, retrieved the small Colt from her handbag and reloaded it. No matter how odious her father was, he had been right.

  You could never be too careful.

  10

  MADRID 2010, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE, CALLE DEL PROFESOR ARANGUREN

  The campus was quiet, the lawns patterned with sharp angled shadows. Galíndez parked in the shade of some low trees near the faculty building and wandered across the grounds in search of her new office. Nothing seemed to have changed as she passed the administrative block, feeling a wave of unwelcome nostalgia, remembering last summer, walking with Tali to the car park in the faded light of a summer storm, on their way to search Guzmán’s abandoned HQ. Remembering the encroaching sense of threat as they arrived at that grim building, the feeling of accumulated fear and pain inside.

  With only three days left until summer break, there were only a few indolent students slouched on the grass near the fountain, watching the shimmering column of water rise into the warm air like sculpted glass. A new sign labelled Centre for Historical Discourse Analysis directed her down the side of the old History building. Clearly they had tucked Luisa’s new department away at the back of the faculty. That made Galíndez smile: Luisa wasn’t a woman to tolerate anything that threatened her status.

  At the rear of the faculty building, Galíndez stopped, staring at what had been the visitors’ car park. Luisa hadn’t been hidden away at all. The new departmental building was a steel and glass construction, two storeys high with rounded asymmetrical contours, the architectural style more Martian than Madrileño. As she approached, Galíndez saw a large stylish foyer. A young man with an optimistic beard was lurking just inside the door, holding a clipboard. He gave Galíndez a disapproving look.

  ‘I’m looking for the new Guardia Civil Research Centre,’ Galíndez said.

  ‘It’s in the main faculty building,’ the young man said, fingering his beard self-consciously. ‘I thought you were here for Profesora Ordoñez’s lecture.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’ll be over in a couple of minutes anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ Galíndez said. ‘Can I go in and catch the end of it?’

  ‘Just go up those stairs,’ he indicated a short flight of metal stairs leading up to some swing doors, ‘the doors lead to the back of the lecture theatre.’

  Galíndez ran up the stairs. Inside the darkened lecture theatre, she found herself in an aisle behind the last row of seats, looking down the sloping auditorium towards an intricately lit podium from where Luisa was delivering her inaugural lecture. Behind the profesora, a huge screen gave a magnified view of her face. It was an impressive use of the EU funds Luisa had secured for the new department, a monument both to her ambition and her ego. The auditorium was full and Galíndez leaned on the balcony behind the final row of seats to listen as Luisa brought her talk to a close.

  ‘Señores.’ Luisa moved her gaze over the audience, as if recognising each person in turn. ‘Today, I set out the provisional agenda for my new department, an agenda in which actions speak louder than words and yet words are actions. Our main goal is to create an immense work of linguistic analysis, a discursive labyrinth stretching from the Civil War to the Pact of Forgetting and the subsequent disappearance of the dictatorship and its political lexicon.’

  Galíndez sighed. Luisa couldn’t say if she wanted cream or milk in her coffee in fewer than five hundred words.

  ‘Memory is at the heart of our work,’ Luisa continued. ‘After all, memory was a central element in the transition from the dictatorship to democracy. Perhaps more correctly I should say the suppression of memory, since the Pact of Forgetting involved an agreement that the military would not resist democracy as long as their crimes during the years of Franco’s rule were forgotten. That required all those who suffered during that time to deny it and set it to one side; to agree it did not happen. That denial of memory needs to be addressed and rectified using the analytic practices developed in my own ground-breaking work exploring emotion, experience and recall.’

  Galíndez rolled her eyes, certain that if Luisa didn’t have both hands on her copious notes, she would pat herself on the back.

  Luisa wasn’t finished. ‘The ultimate objective of an interpretative scholar like me is to examine how people give significance to their lives – not by using official histories, compendiums of statistics or sterile chronologies of events stripped of all relevance to lived experience. Instead, we explore hidden places, the lost worlds of human existence and experience whose perspectives have been obscured by the quantification and calibration of positivist science. Counting, categorising and quantifying merely create colourless realms in which human experience is represented using rigid categories to provide a restricted and joyless understanding of what it is to be human.’

  Luisa was talking about scientific method and Galíndez narrowed her eyes, suddenly resentful, knowing the profesora never missed an opportunity to attack her working practices.

  ‘We must break away, allow the hidden voice to be revealed by our research, and, in doing so, share and understand the worlds of others.’ Luisa sounded ecstatic. ‘We must judge actions on their own terms not ours, understand their motivations, recognise their frailties and inadequacies, not stand as judge and jury. As Bataille said: “Experience cannot be communicated without bonds of silence, of hiding, of distance.”’ We need to understand those bonds, understand how people came to do things because of circumstance and social environment. Our work on history is about giving a voice to the silenced, the inarticulate and the dead. Ladies and gentlemen, for me as a historian, this work it is not an exercise in measurement or judgement. It is a privilege.’

  Oh fuck off. Galíndez gripped the handrail tightly as the audience burst into loud applause. Luisa glanced around the lecture theatre for a moment and then stepped away from the microphone with a sharp swirl worthy of a bullfighter, marking the end of her first lecture in the new centre. Galíndez leaned on the rail, looking down over the rows of people below as they emerged from the dark, suddenly illuminated by the overhead lights. On the podium, Luisa was surrounded by well-wishers, engaged in a pageant of handshakes, air kisses and extravagant embraces as if receiving an Oscar.

  She certainly deserved one, Galíndez thought, turning to go. She paused, realising she was being childish. Luisa was what she was, it was Galíndez who was the interloper here. Since they were going to be working only a few metres away from each other, it was probably best to say hello now and get it over with. If Luisa still held a grudge that was just too bad. As she went down the stairs, the last of the audience were melting away, leaving Luisa alone. As Galíndez stepped onto the podium, Luisa looked up from her papers.

  ‘Ana, probrecita.’ She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Galíndez, her hands sliding down to clasp her rear. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘You too,’ Galíndez said, turning her head to avoid Luisa kissing her on the mouth. Clearly she doesn’t hold a grudge.

  ‘I’m so sorry about what happened to you, my poor darling. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Galíndez said, wriggling from her grasp. ‘I thought I’d just say hello since we’re going to be colleagues again.’

  ‘So I heard. I’m very pleased.’ Luisa slipped her arm around Galíndez’s waist, resting her hand on her hip. ‘I miss the intellectual tension between us.’

  ‘Speaking of which, you won’t be surprised to hear I’m going to continue my investigation on Guzmán,’ Galíndez said, trying to keep Luisa’s hand from progre
ssing any further under her shirt.

  ‘Just as I expected.’ Luisa nodded. ‘Good for you. Just ask if I can be of any help.’ She frowned. ‘What’s this on your ribs?’

  ‘Scar tissue. I was in an explosion, remember?’

  Luisa pulled her hand away. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you’d been disfigured.’

  ‘It’s nothing when you think how close I was to being killed.’

  ‘You had such a splendid body.’ Luisa took a step away from her.

  ‘Are you OK with me continuing the Guzmán investigation?’ Galíndez asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Of course.’ Luisa smiled. ‘In fact, the work you did last year led me to rewrite parts of my manuscript to accommodate your criticism. As you’ll have gathered from my talk, my work focuses on the discursive mechanisms employed by people like him. I’m going to call the book Textual Oppression in Spanish History 1936–1982.’

  ‘Very appropriate. I’ll be using a scientific approach as always.’

  Luisa gave her a patronising smile. ‘I’m sure you feel you have to.’

  ‘I’ve got to dash,’ Galíndez said, noticing the time. ‘I’m meeting my assistant in the new office. Thanks for the flowers you sent when I was in hospital.’

  ‘De nada. Let’s do lunch soon?’ Luisa briefly embraced her, though this time with markedly less enthusiasm.

  Galíndez strolled to the History building. This was familiar territory with its dimly lit interior pervaded by a lingering odour of dust. She made her way along the corridor past Seminar Room B and paused for a moment, remembering how she’d first been introduced to Guzmán’s crimes in this room filled with black and white images of war. Her mood began to deteriorate as she followed the corridor down a flight of stairs into the basement. A handwritten sign on the wall pointed the way and Galíndez realised dejectedly that the new research centre was located at the end of this low passage, next door to the boiler room. She opened the door.

  ‘Surprise.’ Isabel grinned.

  Galíndez stepped into the windowless room, trying to hide her disappointment. The sparse office furniture looked suspiciously like a collection of rejects from another department: a few shelves on the back wall, an electric kettle and some mugs. In one corner was a battered whiteboard, with a few marker pens.

  ‘I’ve worked in nicer places,’ Isabel said, pointing to a patch of damp on the wall.

  ‘It’s pretty basic,’ Galíndez agreed. ‘Still, we’ve got a budget so we can get computers and whatever else we need in the next couple of days. Maybe you could do that?’

  ‘From radio star to purchasing clerk,’ Isabel sighed. ‘Just as well I like shopping.’

  ‘How come you’re early? You said you’d be here at two.’

  ‘I got this.’ Isabel reached under the desk and brought out a large cake.

  Galíndez raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that chocolate cake?’

  ‘It is and if you don’t like it, I’ll take it home and eat it while I watch TV.’

  ‘You won’t.’ Galíndez dipped a finger into the icing. ‘I love chocolate cake.’

  Isabel started slicing the cake. ‘A woman was looking for you earlier.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  Isabel shrugged. ‘She didn’t say but she seemed a bit odd. Maybe she’s a crazy fan?’

  ‘You’re the media star, I don’t have fans.’

  Isabel sighed. ‘Nor do I, since she didn’t recognise me. It’s always a problem in radio.’ She put a slice of cake onto a plate and gave it to Galíndez. ‘Thanks for the job, by the way.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Galíndez took a bite of cake. ‘It could last a while too. Señora Calderón promised to fund us for the next five years if her party win the next election.’

  ‘And of course you believe politicians’ promises, Ana María?’

  ‘At least you’ve got this,’ Galíndez said, gesturing round the dingy room. ‘Interesting work and a pleasant boss.’ She dabbed her finger into the cake topping again.

  ‘You want to go for a drink tonight, Ana? Celebrate our first day?’

  ‘I’d love to, but my boss phoned me earlier. He and his wife are going to a show and they need a sitter.’

  Isabel rolled her eyes. ‘How many kids?’

  ‘Two. Inés is twelve and Clari’s three. You wouldn’t like to come, would you?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m allergic to children.’

  ‘They’re sweet, really.’

  ‘I’m sure, but there are some things I just don’t do, and kids are one of them.’

  Their conversation was interrupted as a woman came into the room. Probably in her fifties, a little older maybe, a gaunt face and unkempt hair. The expression of someone who knew what it was to be unhappy.

  ‘Doctora Galíndez? I’m sorry to bother you.’ She had a wild, haunted look that made Galíndez wonder about mental health issues as she shook the woman’s nicotine-stained hand.

  ‘Take a seat, señora,’ Galíndez said, looking round for a chair. ‘My colleague said you were looking for me earlier?’

  ‘That’s right, my name’s Adelina Solano.’

  Isabel stood up. ‘Sit here, señora. I’ll go to the cafeteria and get some coffee. How do you like yours, Ana María?’

  ‘Double espresso,’ Galíndez said. ‘How about you, señora?’

  Señora Solana gave her a cold look. ‘I can’t afford it and I don’t accept charity.’

  Galíndez shrugged and pointed to the cake. ‘This is our first day in this new unit, won’t you have a slice of cake and a coffee with us?’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ Adelina Solano muttered, hesitating. ‘A white coffee would be nice.’

  ‘Café con leche it is.’ Isabel went out into the corridor.

  ‘How did you hear about our investigation?’ Galíndez asked. ‘This is our first day.’

  ‘I tried to get you at the guardia HQ. They said you were on secondment here, investigating the stolen children.’

  Galíndez brushed a few crumbs from her shirt. ‘So, how can I help?’

  Once Adelina Solano started, she couldn’t stop. ‘I was watching TV the other morning and they were talking about your Guzmán investigation. One of the commentators said you seemed to be on a personal crusade. That struck a chord because so am I.’

  ‘Is this about someone lost in the Civil War?’ Galíndez cut in. ‘We can’t investigate individual cases.’

  ‘It’s about my daughter, Leticia,’ Adelina Solano said, looking her straight in the eye. There was more pain in those eyes than anyone deserved, Galíndez thought.

  ‘I suppose you know about the niños robados, Dr Galíndez?’

  ‘I do. Was your daughter one of them?’

  Adelina Solano exhaled slowly, trying to compose herself. ‘The hospital told me she died at birth, but that was a lie. I’m certain she was stolen.’

  Galíndez looked round in vain for a pen and paper. ‘Did you go to the policía?’

  ‘Of course. But the clinic said they’d cremated the baby, so the police refused to do anything. That was seventeen years ago. No one’s done anything since.’

  Galíndez sighed. If she started taking individual cases, she’d be working on them until she retired. ‘This isn’t my area, señora. My main focus is on investigating Guzmán and his links to the stolen children.’

  Adelina pursed her lips. ‘You sound like Señora Calderón.’

  ‘Do you know her?’ Galíndez asked, surprised.

  ‘I tried to get her to do something about my daughter’s case, but she wouldn’t.’

  ‘There are support groups, aren’t there?’

  ‘I used to be spokeswoman for a niños robados parents’ group. We met regularly with Señora Calderón – that’s how I know her. She’s like all the others, she did nothing.’

  ‘Didn’t the other people in the support group help?’

  ‘Not really.’ Adelina shrugged. ‘In fact, they threw me out.’

  ‘Why did they
do that?’

  ‘I’m too radical for them because I want action, Dr Galíndez. This has been going on year after year, and all the time, the officials and politicians just make it harder to find out what happened to our children.’

  ‘Even so...’ Galíndez saw the look on Adelina’s ravaged face and shut up.

  ‘I should have known,’ Adelina said, in a tired voice. ‘You’re like all the others. You listen, patronise me and then show me the door. And nothing gets done to find my daughter.’

  ‘I have to focus on Guzmán,’ Galíndez muttered, suddenly defensive.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Adelina Solano leaned forward. ‘My daughter has grown up without knowing her mother. If you knew what that was like, you’d help.’

  ‘Actually, I do,’ Galíndez said quietly. ‘When I was eight, my mother killed herself a few months after my father was murdered.’

  ‘Then you, of all people, should help me,’ Adelina said with an air of vindication. ‘These are her details.’ She took some handwritten sheets from her bag and pushed them across the desk. ‘I’ve put down the dates, the name of the clinic and the doctor.’ A tear started to trickle down her lined face. She wiped it away. ‘I’ve lost my daughter, my husband and my home. I can’t stop now. I have to find my Leticia.’ She stared into Galíndez’s eyes. ‘Help me, Dr Galíndez. I don’t know who else to ask.’

  Galíndez sighed. ‘Even if I agree, there’s no guarantee I’ll find her.’ She ran a hand over her hair, thinking about it. ‘Do you have any information that would help me?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Adelina said. ‘That parents’ group I told you about, the ones who threw me out? Well, I was the driver of their van. In fact, I’ve still got it at the moment.’

  ‘We don’t need a vehicle, señora. But thanks for the offer.’

  Adelina frowned, annoyed at being interrupted. ‘I was about to say that earlier this morning I drove round to see a priest in a church on Calle Robles. It’s in Vallecas.’

  ‘I know where it is,’ Galíndez said. ‘I was nearly killed there.’