The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  Once in the street, Guzmán reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled for the note the girl in the cell gave him. The note he’d forgotten.

  Mamá,

  I’m at the military governor’s residence. I’ve been arrested. Please come and get me. Please hurry, I’m frightened.

  Your loving daughter, María

  He should never have taken this from her. The best thing to do was screw the letter into a ball and throw it into one of the reeking piles of garbage across the street. You couldn’t get mixed up in other people’s business, not with someone as volatile as Mellado.

  He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the thick stubble. In Madrid he could have pulled rank or bribed someone to let the girl go, as a favour to Magdalena, but not here. In any case, the girl claimed to be innocent, but guilty people always said that. It was only when you started getting rough that they told the truth. The motto of the Inquisition still held: The truth through pain. People were cunning creatures, go easy on them and they took advantage. This María Vidal had clearly been led astray by the excitement of the resistance. Excited to repeat their slogans and anti-government phrases. Criticising the natural order of things. They started out being clever in front of their friends, showing off, insulting Franco or the Church. As if they knew better. Some saw sense and stopped before they got into serious trouble. Others thought they could say what they liked, where they liked. Kids like Nieves Arestigui.

  He reached for a cigarette, wondering what he would do if she had been the one in the general’s cell instead of María Vidal. All it would take was for Nieves to shoot her mouth off in public as she had when Guzmán had visited the farm. She would have been arrested at once.

  He knew from long experience the sequence the interrogators would follow. Strip her naked, shove her head into a bucket of water until she was pleading for it to stop. Then the beatings and abuse would begin. Petty tortures, such as forcing her to kneel for hours on dried lentils, following that with something darker and much more painful, depending on the whim of the interrogator. Electric shocks. Perhaps the use of a heated iron.

  He wiped sweat from his face. He would have a word with Nieves, get her to be more careful about what she said for her own safety. He could imagine her response.

  But it wasn’t Nieves’ voice he heard. Work it out, chico. You’re the smart one.

  Further down the street, he paused by the flyblown window of a souvenir shop. Through the dirty glass he saw lines of painted figures in Basque dress, paper flags on sticks, faded postcards and a few garishly coloured sweets. He went in and asked for directions.

  The street was nearby, a narrow cobbled lane running up from the port to the side of the basilica. An old building, the shutters hanging loose, damaged by the sea air. Three storeys of faded, damp apartments. A smell of cooking hung in the air and from one of the upper windows he heard the sounds of a family meal.

  He stepped into the dingy entrance hall. Worn tiles, a light that didn’t work when he pressed the switch. The familiar odour of damp. A line of rusty mailboxes along the back wall. He found the box marked Vidal and pushed the girl’s letter into it. He could do no more, he thought as he went back into the street. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this at all.

  Guzmán took a shower at his hotel and swallowed a couple of aspirin he’d bought for a fiercely contested price from the abrasive dwarf in reception. Somewhat refreshed, he left his room, heading for the exit. Heráclito was busy behind the reception desk and Guzmán slapped the key onto the counter as he went past.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Heráclito called. ‘There’s a telegram here for you.’ He pushed the envelope across the desk. ‘Shall I read it to you or do you want to spend an hour struggling with the big words?’

  ‘You know, it isn’t illegal to kill dwarves.’ Guzmán picked up the telegram.

  ‘Only the secret police can do things like that,’ Heráclito sneered.

  Guzmán stopped and stared at him. There was a long silence, broken only by the ticking of the ancient clock behind the reception desk.

  ‘I think I’ll just go and polish something,’ Heráclito said, getting down from his stool. ‘Unless you’d like a coffee, or a French woman, perhaps? I can get either for a similar price.’

  Guzmán left the hotel and went in search of a barber’s shop. After an excellent shave from a pleasingly tight-lipped barber, he took a seat on a bench overlooking the beach and opened the telegram. It was from Gutiérrez. It took only a few minutes to decode and it was not good news.

  CARRERO BLANCO COMING TO SAN SEB.VERY CONCERNED BY LOCAL PROBLEM OFMISSING PERSON. AS AM I.

  Guzmán sighed. The last person he needed up here was Franco’s second in command, not least because Carrero Blanco despised Guzmán with a passion. As to which missing person Carrero Blanco was concerned about, it was highly likely Gutiérrez was referring to the Yanqui now resting deep in Mari’s Cave.

  An idea struck him. Just because Carrero Blanco was in town it didn’t mean Guzmán had to see him. It was an unannounced visit after all. He just needed to avoid Carrero Blanco and get on with the job of tracking down El Lobo. That thought cheered him immensely as he sauntered down to the port to meet Ochoa.

  The corporal was waiting by the quay, smoking as he watched a fishing boat head out past the island into the Bahia de Vizcaya.

  ‘We’re going after two gentleman of a delicate persuasion today,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘Maricones?’ Ochoa brightened a little. ‘We might have a laugh if they resist arrest.’

  ‘They always resist arrest. It usually adds a few years to the sentence.’

  ‘So who’re the lucky ladies?’

  ‘One’s called Esteban Jiménez, he was General Torres’s warehouse manager. His boyfriend is a Señor Elias Cardoso, a senior clerk at the Banco de Bilbao.’

  Ochoa gave a low whistle. ‘The bank where someone’s been tipping off El Lobo?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Of course it could just be coincidence.’ He took one last pull of the cigarette and flicked it into the dirty water of the harbour. ‘But Jiménez arranged for General Torres to sit by the window at his lodge shortly before El Lobo shot him. No one’s seen either of them since.’

  ‘Got an address, jefe?’

  Guzmán held up a scrap of paper. ‘Calle de la Pescadería. Let’s pay them a call.’

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE DE LA PESCADERÍA

  A dark cobbled street crammed with rundown shops and bars, echoing with the song of caged birds. On the floors above, people were closing their shutters against the fierce midday sun. The lower floors remained in shadow and in the street men smoked, or read a paper, as they waited for their wives to prepare lunch. Guzmán soon found himself distracted by the savoury smells emanating from some of the cafés and it took a great effort of will not to stop for a few tapas.

  ‘Cuarenta y très, this is the one,’ Guzmán said, pointing to the plain wooden door. He yanked the length of rusty wire that served as a bell pull. Nothing happened. When he tried the door, it swung open. That was a surprise: leave a door open and anyone could walk in and help themselves to whatever they could find. Even if burglars didn’t seize the opportunity, there was always a chance the police might.

  As they crossed the dingy lobby, a harsh voice from a radio on one of the upper floors relayed news about a phenomenal harvest due to advances made by Spanish science.

  They reached the first floor and continued upwards. The radio was still crackling out a triumphant litany of Spain’s achievements. Guzmán heard the words Glorious Leader, Sentinel of the West praised by the Heads of Europe. The same old shit. Spain had no new stories to tell, contenting itself by regurgitating past glories and triumphs, continually evoking the past in an attempt to convince itself – against a wealth of evidence to the contrary – of its greatness. This was a country sustained on lies and improvised fictions, though those alone did not maintain the balance of power. Men lik
e Guzmán did that.

  The fourth floor reeked of damp. Ancient doors with peeling paint and faded numbers. Bare floorboards that sagged beneath their feet. No professional man would live in such a place from choice, unless he had a secret he preferred to keep hidden. Which, of course, explained why Jiménez’s boyfriend lived here.

  They moved quietly along the corridor, looking for a door with the name Cardoso. It wasn’t difficult to find. In fact, they couldn’t have missed it. What was left of it. It looked as if it had been hit by a truck. The hinges were ripped from the doorframe, the shattered remnants of the door strewn around the entrance.

  Guzmán aimed the Browning into the apartment while Ochoa stood by, ready to cover him. Together, they worked their way down the narrow hall, checking each room as they went. A bathroom, two bedrooms, a sitting room, all empty and apparently undisturbed. An expensive clock and some Venetian glass ornaments suggested the occupants were not poor.

  At the far end of the hall, dim light came from a window overlooking an inner courtyard. Guzmán went in slowly, keeping the pistol raised. He stopped so abruptly Ochoa almost walked into him. He saw the object of Guzmán’s attention and let out a low whistle.

  ‘Me cago en Dios.’

  The table was set for a meal. Two places, the food untouched on the plates. Shattered wine glasses on the floor, brittle under their feet. There hadn’t been much of a struggle. Possibly the men had been too frightened to resist. And no wonder.

  Esteban Jiménez was sitting in one chair, Elias Cardoso in the other. Both had their backs to the window, their faces rigid monochrome masks in the pale light. Death masks, since their heads had been twisted at an impossible angle to face the smeared glass.

  ‘Mierda,’ Guzmán said. He took hold of Esteban Jiménez’s head, holding it with both hands as he rolled it about. ‘They broke his neck like a chicken.’ He turned to inspect Cardoso’s corpse. ‘This one’s the same.’

  ‘Looks like you were right, jefe,’ Ochoa said. ‘They did have something to hide.’

  ‘And someone didn’t want us talking to them.’ Guzmán went into the small kitchen adjoining the dining room and returned, brandishing a bottle of brandy. ‘Cheap stuff,’ he said scornfully. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long swig. ‘Joder, it’s been a long time since I had anything that rough. Want some?’

  Ochoa shook his head and then changed his mind. ‘Just a swig.’ Guzmán handed him the bottle and he took a pull. ‘Fucking hell.’ He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  Guzmán took the bottle from him and drank again. ‘You’re right, this is shit.’ He rummaged in his jacket for his cigarettes and gave one to Ochoa. The black tobacco tasted vile after the cheap brandy.

  ‘What do we do now, jefe?’

  ‘You’d better call the comisaría and get a wagon sent over for these two.’

  Guzmán listened to Ochoa’s footsteps as he went downstairs. Then he picked up the bottle and inhaled the sickly aroma. It was undrinkable even for him and he put the bottle down, annoyed. If these two maricas could afford Venetian glass birds, they could easily have got a better make of brandy.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, RESTAURANTE LA LUNA NEGRA

  Despite its name, the restaurant was lit by powerful spotlights that bathed the room in an unforgiving glare. Guzmán looked round, disapproving of this modern nonsense. He preferred more traditional establishments where the lack of adequate lighting gave customers an opportunity to skulk or intrigue in the shadows, which, as far as he was concerned, was why God made restaurants in the first place.

  At a table overlooking the sea he saw Magdalena, looking like a movie star, the one whose name he’d forgotten, in an expensive off-the-shoulder dress. It was difficult to believe that only a few hours ago he had been in her bed. She looked up from the menu, her face lighting up as he made his way towards her. As Guzmán approached, Magdalena’s godfather raised his head and stared at him, bemused, though no more so than Guzmán.

  ‘Leo.’ Magdalena smiled. ‘This is my godfather, Almirante Carrero Blanco.’

  Guzmán’s face was impassive. ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘We have indeed,’ Carrero Blanco agreed. His tone suggested he preferred not to be reminded of the fact.

  A long, empty silence.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, do sit down, Leo.’ Magdalena gestured to the chair next to her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you two were acquainted.’

  ‘Very well acquainted,’ Carrero Blanco muttered. While Magdalena examined the leather-bound menu, he leaned forward and mouthed a word to Guzmán. A question.

  ‘Leo?’

  Guzmán frowned and kept quiet. One day, it was said, Carrero Blanco would take over from Franco. Even Franco, who in his heart never truly believed he would have to relinquish power, said so. That was all the more reason for Guzmán to detest him.

  Carrero Blanco was clearly taken aback by Magdalena’s behaviour towards Guzmán. Her gestures, the tone in her voice, the light in her eyes all carried an unmistakable message about her feelings. It was a message that was probably burning Carrero Blanco’s dour soul like a flame. That thought pleased Guzmán immensely.

  As Guzmán expected, Carrero Blanco took charge of ordering, checking the provenance of each dish with the waiter with a string of pompous and increasingly awkward questions that encompassed not only the food but also the man’s war record. Once the order was finally taken, the waiter hurried away, sweat dripping from his face as he picked his way through the admiral’s bodyguards back to the kitchen.

  Once the food was served, the meal took on the character of a particularly unpleasant visit to the dentist. Carrero Blanco and Magdalena made light conversation, with the admiral expressing his condolences about her father, extolling his virtues and praising his cruel and bloody war record. All of it delivered with practised, utterly bogus sincerity.

  Guzmán was exhausted. His head was starting to throb again, and he let his eyes close for a moment, lulled and bored in equal measure by Carrero Blanco’s bombastic drone. On the brink of sleep, he heard a monotonous buzz, like the bothersome sound of some persistent insect. He heard rain. The sudden clatter of safety catches. Muttered curses in Arabic. Someone screaming threats. His voice. Someone trying to hold him back.

  ‘Leo?’ Magdalena’s voice brought him back to the present. She laid a hand on his wrist. ‘I asked whether the ajoarriero was to your liking?’

  He turned to look at her, aware of Carrero Blanco’s expression as he saw how Magdalena was touching him. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘Perhaps the comandante isn’t used to such a rich dish,’ Carrero Blanco said with a sour smile. Guzmán restrained an urge to punch him.

  If she was aware of Carrero Blanco’s insinuation, Magdalena didn’t show it. She crushed out her cigarette in the heavy brass ashtray and stood up with a soft rustle of silk. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I must visit the powder room.’

  Carrero Blanco and Guzmán both leaped up to help her with her chair and watched as she weaved her way through the tables of the crowded restaurant, Carrero Blanco with a proud godfather’s look of approval, while Guzmán’s eyes followed the movement of her hips beneath the silk skirt, bringing back memories from a few hours earlier. As the red leather door of the powder room closed behind her, they took their seats, fumbling without success for a few polite words to break the silence.

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew my goddaughter.’ Carrero Blanco poured himself a glass of water. He offered the carafe, but Guzmán refused. A man didn’t go to restaurants to drink water when Carrero Blanco was paying the bill.

  ‘We met at a charity ball in aid of the Falange,’ Guzmán said, omitting the detail.

  ‘You astound me,’ Carrero Blanco said. ‘I never saw you as a party man.’

  ‘I’ve always liked parties.’ Guzmán smiled, knowing humour was lost on the almirante. The Jesuit bastard.

  ‘But you do like newspapers, Comandante?’ the almirante asked,
reaching under the table.

  ‘I’m hardly going to read a paper in such pleasant company.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll want to read this.’ Carrero Blanco slapped the paper onto the table and waited as Guzmán looked at the headline.

  ‘I don’t speak French,’ Guzmán said, even though he knew enough to understand this.

  ‘I’ll read it to you,’ Carrero Blanco said, struggling to contain his anger. ‘It says “El Lobo Challenges Franco’s Bloody Rule”.’ He put the paper down. ‘The article says El Lobo’s activities should be seen in the context of a bigger struggle by the growing resistance movement in the Basque country. It suggests the days of Franco’s regime may be numbered.’

  Guzmán took a mouthful of wine. ‘Who wrote that shit?’

  ‘Some French journalist called Jeanette Duclos.’ Carrero Blanco shrugged. ‘Is it true that this bandit is linked to the resistance?’

  Fucking French bitch. There was a time for lying and a time to tell the truth, Guzmán knew. Sometimes you had to tell the truth no matter what the cost.

  He lied. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘In any case, by tomorrow night El Lobo will be dead.’

  Carrero Blanco pursed his lips. ‘Is that an opinion or is it based on something more solid?’

  ‘It’s a fact,’ Guzmán growled. ‘I guarantee it.’

  ‘Then I leave it to you,’ Carrero Blanco said, changing the subject. ‘Incidentally, I hear the leader of the local branch of the Falange has gone missing. Have you heard anything about it?’

  ‘Señor Bárcenas?’ Guzmán said scornfully. ‘He’s an oily bastard with his fat fingers in the black market. When the auditors have finished with his accounts, I think it will be clear he’s taken off with the funds.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first.’ Carrero Blanco nodded. That just leaves one last question.’

  Guzmán felt sweat run down under his collar. The man had been doing his homework.