The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  FRANCE 1954, ST JEAN PIED DE PORT

  It was seven thirty and the sky was dark with rain clouds as Guzmán walked through the deserted village to the station. There were no passengers on the platform and no sign of Ochoa. Slow drops of rain began to fall, and he returned to the car to have a cigarette. He was a little drowsy, possibly from the wine, beer and cognac he had drunk throughout the day together with a few tapas and, of course, a hearty lunch. In his pocket was a paper bag containing a half-eaten pig’s cheek. Opening the door, he took the bag from his pocket and threw it onto the verge. You could go off things.

  Guzmán had just started to doze when the sound of voices made him look up. A group of men were coming towards him, led by Etienne Çubiry. As the group passed the car, Guzmán pulled the brim of his hat down to hide his face, watching them in the rear-view mirror as they turned into a narrow street that led to the river. They were probably going home for dinner, he realised, with a pang of jealousy. And then it struck him: perhaps this was his chance to take a look at Chez Çubiry. He reached for the Browning under his seat but, once again, thought better of it. There was no love lost between the French and Spanish governments. It would cause a diplomatic incident if he was arrested carrying a weapon.

  He climbed from the car and turned up the collar of his coat as he followed the gang down dark cobbled streets, the shops now shuttered and locked. In front of him, he heard the boisterous chatter of the Çubiry echoing in the autumn air as he trailed them along streets where pale lights glinted through chinks in the wooden shutters.

  Ahead, across a narrow bridge, was an arched gate. Beyond it, a steep cobbled street rose past the shadowed outline of a church. Guzmán watched from the doorway of a pharmacy as the Çubiry crossed the bridge in a staccato clatter of boots and turned onto a path running along the riverbank. A moment later, he followed, guided by their noise through the dark trees and bushes. After ten minutes, the Çubiry rattled across a wooden bridge and Guzmán saw vague lights from a huddle of low buildings behind a wire fence. Beyond the fence, the sombre outline of a dilapidated chateau, its detail lost in shadow, a few stuttering candles in some of the windows the only sign of occupation. He heard a sharp voice give a command and saw a flicker of light as the gate opened. A moment later, it closed again.

  Guzmán crossed the bridge and sheltered under a knot of dripping trees near the gate, listening for voices, though he heard only rain and the slap of the river against its banks.

  A handwritten sign hung on the gate, the inked letters now streaked.

  Exportation Çubiry, Accès Interdit

  The fence was an ugly construction of wire strung between concrete posts about two metres high, topped here and there with rusted strands of barbed wire. The Çubiry seemed relaxed about their security, since there were several places where an intruder could be over the fence in a matter of seconds. An intruder like Guzmán, anyway.

  The rain grew heavier. This was no night for standing around. He put a hand on the gate, testing it as he heaved himself up. Nothing stirred on the other side and he dropped down into the compound, listening carefully as he moved in the direction of the house. He tensed as he heard voices coming towards him. Men chatting, their boots splashing in the mud as they approached. Cautiously, he drifted into a thicket of bushes, grateful for the protection of their sodden leaves as the two men went by. They were not taking an evening stroll, that was clear: one carried a shotgun, the other wielded a large cudgel. The men continued their conversation under the trees for a few minutes before moving on, unaware of Guzmán’s presence a couple of metres away.

  His eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, Guzmán noticed the array of abandoned vehicles and equipment littered across the grounds as he worked his way closer, seeing the detail of Chateau Çubiry emerge from the rain. A sullen, cheerless building, exuding abandonment and neglect. Most of the windows were dark, suggesting the building was not fully occupied, though, occupied or not, he had already decided he was going in.

  The ground-floor windows were tightly shuttered. But Guzmán was skilled in such things and soon forced one open. Behind the shutter the window pane was broken and he slipped his hand through the hole in the jagged glass and felt for the handle. The window creaked open and he climbed in, careful to close both window and shutter once he was inside.

  The room was in total darkness, the air rich with a smell of neglect and decay. Guzmán winced at the creaking floorboards as he moved across the room, arms outstretched, feeling for obstacles in his path until he found a door and went out into a dimly lit hallway. To his left was a wide staircase leading up to a landing. To his right, the hall disappeared into shadow. Dimly lit was better than no light at all and he went upstairs, making for the door at the end of the landing.

  He found himself staring into a long, narrow gallery, illuminated by a smoking oil lamp on a table near the fireplace. The gallery had once been elegant, that was clear. The elaborate gilt cornicing on the ceiling a reminder of the aristocratic chic and refined taste of a bygone age. But what remained of the room was now a mocking echo of what it had once been. And what remained was a nightmare.

  The carefully decorated walls were marred by huge patches of damp, the wallpaper hanging loose, weighed down with green mould. To either side of the grand fireplace were armchairs, their faded damask upholstery marred by patches of mildew. Next to them, a rectangular walnut table, its legs warped with age, the sheen of the wood masked by a film of dust. Dry brown flowers slumped in a crystal vase of cloudy water. Everywhere, an air of decay and corruption. Slowly, he moved to the door at the far end of the gallery and stepped into the next room. As he turned away from the door, he stopped in his tracks, seeing the rows of men staring at him. Big men, their dark hooded eyes filled with violent intent. Innumerable Guzmáns, all scowling.

  The room was filled with two parallel lines of mirrors arranged to form an aisle. Above, on soot-stained walls, huge vases of black feathers hung in terracotta vases, their rustling strange and unsettling as he advanced between the mirrors towards an old chaise longue by the window where a single candle flickered in an ancient candelabrum. Behind the couch, the shutters were open. All he need do was open the window and slip away from this bizarre labyrinth into the darkness. As Guzmán moved round the side of the chaise longue, the wavering light was so weak he failed to see the body lying beneath the window until he stumbled over it.

  He knelt by the corpse and rolled it onto its back, examining the ragged cut across the man’s throat. He had been killed elsewhere, since there was no blood on the floorboards. Even though the man’s face was a contorted mask of fear, Guzmán recognised his cut-price informant from the sports day, Fermín Etxeberria.

  Something creaked behind him and he turned, seeing vague figures filing into the room.

  ‘A little demonstration of our hospitality, monsieur,’ a deep voice said. ‘And we treat uninvited guests in the same way we treat informers.’

  Rapid footsteps behind him. Guzmán turned quickly, though too late to parry the cudgel as it cracked against his head in a sudden explosion of white light and pain. And then a strange darkness, filled with the rustling of feathers.

  Guzmán felt the rough wooden floor against his face as he came to. Movement produced a sickening pain and it took a moment to drag himself into a sitting position. He was in the middle of a large room, dimly lit by a series of flickering candles arranged on the tables. As his vision cleared, he took a look at his surroundings.

  He had company.

  At least twenty of the Çubiry clan clustered round him. Many were holding cudgels, slapping them into their palms impatiently. It was not an encouraging sign.

  ‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’ A deep voice from outside the ring of candlelight.

  Guzmán looked at the figure coming towards him. A hard-faced man, brown skin tanned by the sun and the mountain wind, topped by a thick mane of silver hair tied back in a ponytail. Riding boots, a velvet frock-coat and, beneath it, a c
rimson waistcoat. All had seen better days, though the pistol in the man’s belt looked anything but dated.

  ‘Buenas noches,’ Guzmán grunted. ‘I don’t speak French.’

  ‘No facility for languages, monsieur?’ The man had a reasonable grasp of Spanish and Guzmán thought it best not to correct his mistakes. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: I am Abarron Çubiry, though most round here call me the Baron.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Guzmán ran a hand over his scalp and winced. ‘This is my first visit to France.’ He touched his scalp again. ‘It’s made quite an impression on me.’

  ‘Visitors usually knock at the gate,’ Baron Çubiry said. ‘You broke in.’

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘I’ll knock next time.’

  ‘There’ll be no next time. We’ll feed you to the pigs, Spanyol.’ Guzmán saw Etienne Çubiry’s sallow face a few metres away.

  ‘There you are,’ Guzmán said. ‘I wanted to discuss that consignment of whisky.’

  ‘You aren’t a salesman of stolen whisky,’ the Baron said. ‘And we are not stupid.’ He glanced at Etienne and shrugged. ‘My son, maybe. But I must live with that.’

  ‘Let me shoot him, Father.’

  ‘Patience, mon fils. Let’s hear what our guest has to say before we make a decision about his future.’ The Baron stared at Guzmán. ‘Why are you here, monsieur? And, please, the truth. If you lie to me, my son’s pigs will eat well tonight.’

  Guzmán had been preparing a string of lies and half-truths to explain his visit. That would only work if Çubiry knew nothing about him.

  ‘My name is Comandante Leo Guzmán, from the Brigada Especial.’ Guzmán listened to the frantic translation taking place around him.

  ‘The secret police?’ The Baron didn’t seem surprised. ‘Do continue.’

  ‘I’m trying to find a notorious bandit known as El Lobo.’

  ‘Then we have a problem,’ Çubiry boomed. ‘He’s one of our most valued customers.’

  ‘I noticed,’ Guzmán said. ‘I found a cache of weapons in an old convent near Mari’s Peak.’ He glared at Baron Çubiry. ‘They all had your label on them.’

  ‘No doubt.’ The Baron smiled. ‘And you took them from El Lobo?’

  ‘They were destroyed.’

  ‘Then he’ll need to buy more guns from us. You’re good for business, señor. The Baron’s smile slipped. ‘Too bad we have to kill you.’

  ‘That would be a mistake,’ said Guzmán. ‘The Spanish government are already making a protest to the French authorities about your activities. You can expect a visit from your gendarmes very soon.’

  ‘Les flics won’t help you.’ Çubiry’s laugh exposed a line of yellow teeth. ‘We pay them to mind their own business and they do it very well.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘And don’t try to threaten me with your government. You don’t have one, just a bandy-legged general.’

  ‘That’s unfair,’ Guzmán said. ‘Even if it is true.’

  ‘Any more questions before we say goodbye?’

  ‘We arrested an ex-Republican in the hills. He was travelling with one of your men.’

  Çubiry shrugged. ‘Sometimes we provide guides for such people. They pay well to get over the border.’

  ‘Are all of them are ex-soldiers like him?’

  ‘Bien sûr, we’re not a travel agency. Most are highly skilled in their trade. That’s why they’re coming home: to use their skills to demolish that chocolate-box soldier you call Generalísimo.’ He rested his hands on his belt. ‘They say war is hell, Monsieur Guzmán. Let me tell you, war is highly profitable.’

  ‘It has to stop,’ Guzmán said.

  The Baron’s thick eyebrows rose in mock surprise. ‘You speak as if your pathetic country were a matter of any importance. You were ruled by the Arabs for five hundred years, and now you cling to memories of a golden age the rest of the world has long forgotten. You are inconsequential, you Spanish. We Basques listen to the voice of our land. It speaks our history in words unblemished by time, so know this, Comandante. I don’t care what happens to Spain. Let it burn, and let the flames cleanse its filth.’

  ‘You sound like a philosopher,’ Guzmán said, glancing round in search of a weapon.

  A Gallic shrug. ‘Merci.’

  ‘It wasn’t a compliment, I don’t trust philosophers.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Suspicion always haunts a guilty mind. But philosophy is both a tool and a weapon. It’s my greatest regret that I had to abandon my studies at the Sorbonne.’ Another nonchalant shrug. ‘I killed a man.’

  ‘That must have disappointed your philosophy teacher.’

  ‘Indeed it did. He was the man I killed.’

  Guzmán got up, shaking his head as if to clear it. Checking the distance to the door. ‘So you’re helping the resistance?’

  ‘Of course not. I’d betray them all in a heartbeat, for the right price. But seeing that our trade with them seems to have unsettled you so much, I think the resistance may become even more profitable in the future.’

  ‘And what if you provoke another war?’ Guzmán asked, buying time.

  The Baron held out his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘The forces of the market are like God: they move in mysterious ways.’

  ‘Suppose we come to an arrangement?’ Guzmán said. ‘A fair price for El Lobo and an end to your gun-running.’

  ‘That’s almost acceptable,’ Çubiry said. ‘But you annoy me with your assumption that I’ll accept your money like some bourgeois merchant.’ He laughed. ‘Others will come after you. They’ll offer more than you can and they’ll be much more inclined to bargain.’

  ‘I’m authorised to make a bargain like that,’ Guzmán lied.

  Çubiry shook his head. ‘There have to be casualties to show we’re serious. You’ll be the first, señor.’ He bared his teeth again. ‘Though not the last, I assure you. And each time we kill one of your kind, the price will rise. What else can your government do, declare war? Of course not, they’ll pay up.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Guzmán noticed a burly man sidling towards him. Another moment or so and the entire crew would be on him, cudgels and all.

  He swung his elbow back into the man’s face, smashing his nose and sending him tumbling into the men behind. In the confused mêlée that followed, Guzmán leaped forward and seized the Baron’s throat with his left hand, using his right to tug the pistol from the man’s belt. Unbalanced, Çubiry fell back against the table holding the candles, knocking it to the floor and plunging the room into darkness. A chorus of furious shouts and threats, the deep voice of the Baron calling for order. A lighter flickered and a candle sputtered into life. Several more quickly followed, bathing the room with hesitant light.

  Baron Çubiry struggled to his feet, dusting down his velvet coat. His eyes widened as he saw Guzmán with his back to the wall, one arm around Etienne’s throat, the Baron’s pistol pressed against his temple.

  ‘Go ahead, shoot him,’ the Baron said calmly. ‘It’s not loaded.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Guzmán thumbed the back the hammer, ignoring Etienne’s choked protest.

  ‘Touché,’ Baron Çubiry said. There was no smile this time. ‘But you can’t get out of here, Comandante. Not unless I give the word.’

  ‘Then you’d better give it,’ Guzmán said. ‘Blood’s thicker than water.’

  The Baron lowered his voice. ‘I know a lot about blood, my friend.’

  ‘Fuck with me and I’ll show you just how thick it is right now.’ Guzmán shoved the muzzle of the pistol against Etienne’s temple, harder this time. ‘We’re going for a walk.’

  The Baron’s face remained impassive. ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘The border at Hendaya. I’ll leave him on the French side for you to collect.’

  ‘Very well.’ Baron Çubiry nodded. ‘But this insult will be avenged, rest assured.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d show me the way out?’ said Guzmán. ‘And no surprises, I’d hate to pull the trig
ger by accident.’

  ‘I’m sure you know how to handle a firearm, monsieur.’ The Baron gestured to his men to back away. ‘Please, follow me.’

  They moved slowly through the decrepit house. Guzmán kept a tight grip on Etienne, keeping the pistol pressed to his temple as he waited while the Baron threw open the front doors with an elegant gesture and went out into the night. Cautiously, Guzmán followed.

  The Çubiry clan were waiting. All of them. The crowd filled the space between the chateau and the perimeter fence. Many held burning torches, others brandished clubs and pitchforks. The Baron shouted a few sharp words and the mob fell back, clearing a path to the gate for Guzmán and his prisoner.

  ‘Let me go, Spanyol.’ Etienne struggled to get the words out with Guzmán’s arm crushing his windpipe. ‘Let me go and I’ll ask my father to forgive you. What do you think?’

  ‘I think if you say it again I’ll blow your head off,’ Guzmán said as the gate opened.

  The walk to the car was painfully slow. As Guzmán expected, the Çubiry followed them along the riverbank and back through the village. As he neared the car, Guzmán noticed how the fields on either side offered the crowd room for manoeuvre. This was where they would make their move. If they did, he would shoot some, but the rest would certainly overpower him.

  ‘You have to be clever now,’ said Etienne. ‘And it would be very clever to let me go.’

  ‘I’m not clever,’ Guzmán muttered. ‘But I’m very good at killing people. So shut the fuck up.’ He tightened his hold on Etienne as he saw the crowd edge closer.

  A voice from the shadows. ‘Vamos, Comandante, rapido.’

  Ochoa came out from behind the car, his service pistol aimed into the crowd. One of the Çubiry took a step towards him and Ochoa raised the pistol into the man’s face. ‘Vete, coño.’ The man backed away, snarling insults.

  Guzmán pushed Etienne across the road and bundled him into the front passenger seat. ‘Keep the gun at his head,’ he ordered, as he went to the boot for a piece of rope. Once Etienne was bound securely to the seat, Guzmán got behind the wheel and reached down to retrieve the Browning. Ochoa climbed into the back seat behind Etienne and pressed his pistol against his head. As the crowd started to edge forward again, Guzmán floored the pedal.