‘To be precise, Teniente, I’d say the Dominican Republic,’ Guzmán said. Peralta looked at him admiringly. He had so much to learn.
‘Come on, we don’t have all night, señorito.’ The one with the sunglasses was practically face to face with the secret policeman. ‘It’s cold out here, man.’
‘Yeah, where’s the Spanish hospitality?’ one of the others sniggered.
‘You can’t come in, this is a private reception,’ the policeman said, uncertainly.
‘That’s where you’re wrong, señorito,’ the older one said, ‘cos we’re coming in and we got an invite from your very own Francine Franco himself. We’re official, man.’ Guzmán could see the man had an engraved invitation in his hand. He was also very drunk.
Suddenly Peralta stiffened. ‘That one has a gun,’ he muttered to Guzmán.
Guzmán instinctively reached under his left arm, only to caress the empty shoulder holster.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ the older Dominican asked. ‘Lemme speak to the jefe, the big jefe. I deal with the main man, don’t waste my time with no hired helpers. Get me the organ grinder, not the monkey.’ He grinned broadly, his gold front tooth twinkling.
‘Yeah, I’d throw the man a banana but they ain’t got no bananas in this country. They can’t afford fruit, man,’ the big boxer sneered before dissolving into intoxicated laughter.
‘Comandante Guzmán. Policía,’ Guzmán said loudly as he stepped toward the Dominicans.
The young man with the sunglasses and broad hat grinned mirthlessly up the stairs at Guzmán. ‘Copper? Oh my, I’m gonna cry, man. The police is on us. Oh no.’ He waved his hands, palms facing Guzmán.
‘You’re in a shitload of trouble, officer, if you don’t let us in, man,’ the older man said, this time his gold tooth flashing out of a snarl.
‘I don’t quite see how you work that out,’ Guzmán said.
‘Because there’s six of us, man,’ Goldtooth said. ‘Why don’t you find something else to do, while we make ourselves at home.’
More mirth. One of the other Dominicans burst into a loud cackle.
‘See,’ Goldtooth smiled threateningly, ‘you be out of your depth here, man.’ His left arm moved away from his side, drawing his jacket open to reveal a glimpse of the butt of a handgun stuck into his waistband.
Peralta was edging slowly forwards, trying to decide which of them he would try to grab if things turned ugly. He waited, hoping Guzmán would be able to resolve the situation or at least tell him what to do.
‘Well, I do have other things to do,’ Guzmán said in a conciliatory voice.
Peralta breathed more easily. Calm the situation, he thought. I remember this from the training at the Academia: defuse the situation, calm things down. Don’t escalate the dispute.
Guzmán smiled, looking into Goldtooth’s eyes. ‘In fact I’m going to fuck your mother – once I’ve finished with your wife…’ he paused, ‘again.’
Goldtooth’s eyes narrowed and he reached inside his jacket. There was a flurry of movement as the three policemen who had been on the door drew their weapons.
Goldtooth moved his hand from his belt. ‘Hey, we’re only here to party, Don Jose.’
Guzmán’s fist smashed into the side of Goldtooth’s face. The man flew backwards down the steps, sprawling amongst his companions. He lay motionless for a moment, the centre of a sudden whirl of activity as the Dominicans gathered around him, trying to get him to his feet, at the same time shouting curses up at Guzmán. Guzmán started down the steps towards them. Peralta followed.
‘What the hell is going on?’ It was Valverde, storming through the doorway, red-faced, riding boots clattering on the stone, medals glittering across his chest. Behind came him a gaggle of subordinates, also replete with rows of medals, although to a lesser extent than their general. At Valverde’s side was a tall, middle-aged man in a well-cut suit, his dark hair short in a Yanqui crew cut. The man stepped past Guzmán and looked down the steps where Goldtooth was struggling to his feet, having staunched the flow of blood from his nose with a large silk handkerchief.
‘What occurs here?’ the man said in stilted Spanish.
‘Ask him, man, he started it. All we want to do is party. And we are invited,’ Goldtooth snarled, struggling to get at Guzmán. The other Dominicans restrained the incensed Goldtooth, his fury increased by Guzmán’s mocking smile.
The man turned to Guzmán. ‘I am Alfred Positano, US Trade Advisor to the Embassy. These men are part of the United States trade delegation. I can vouch for them. They are US citizens. I demand that you do not interfere with them.’
‘These men have every right to be here, Comandante,’ Valverde snapped, ‘I want to know why they have been denied entrance. The Caudillo himself invited the delegation tonight.’
‘They weren’t invited to carry firearms,’ Guzmán said, his eyes still locked on Goldtooth. The Dominican finally looked away and sneered under his breath to one of his companions.
‘Weapons?’ Valverde seemed surprised. ‘No, that is of course out of the question. You must leave any weapons here, señores. The comandante is correct.’
A chorus of protest from the Dominicans melted into surly silence as the trade advisor said something to them. With a shrug, Goldtooth led the way, handing his pistol over before flouncing past Guzmán.
‘We gonna meet again, man,’ he hissed.
‘I guarantee it,’ Guzmán said without turning.
Now disarmed, the Dominicans swaggered through into the reception, their shouts and laughter echoing in the marble hallway.
‘I trust we shall have no further trouble tonight?’ the American said, looking first at Valverde and then more inquisitively at Guzmán.
‘Please accept Comandante Guzmán’s apologies for this misunderstanding,’ Valverde said ingratiatingly.
The tall American nodded and went back into the building. Guzmán turned to Valverde. Three metres away, Peralta could see Guzmán’s anger in his rigid posture and the big clenched fists.
‘Armed, drunk inbreds coming into the same building as the Caudillo?’ Guzmán spluttered. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’
Now it was Valverde’s turn to explode. ‘How dare you talk to me like that, Comandante. I have a good mind to—’
‘Enough.’ Guzmán cut across him. Valverde’s mouth opened in surprise at the discourtesy. ‘I take it the Caudillo’s left the premises?’ Guzmán addressed the question to one of the policemen on the door, further incensing the general. The man nodded and Guzmán turned back to Valverde. ‘Now I know those lunatics can do no harm, I’ll be on my way,’ he said.
‘This is intolerable,’ Valverde growled in a low voice as the secret police returned to their positions on the door. ‘You’ve gone too far. Those men were invited.’
‘Those men were all carrying weapons,’ Guzmán said coldly. ‘I doubt the Caudillo intended to turn this reception into a Wild West show. Nor that you would permit it – since you’re the host.’
‘Franco had already left,’ Valverde said icily. ‘The Americans are very important to the Caudillo and are here to do business. It’s unthinkable they intended any harm here. These Yanquis do things differently, that’s all. You will have some respect, Guzmán, and you will obey orders. I saw you sucking up to Franco. Why the fuck he indulges you like that I don’t know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I want you to deal with those bastards on the street, you fool. Not in the middle of an official reception. Officially, we welcome them, Guzmán.’
‘I could hardly let them carry arms in Franco’s presence,’ Guzmán said.
‘Perhaps the Caudillo would take a different view of you if he knew how much cash you took from me,’ Valverde sneered.
Guzmán inclined his head in a mocking bow. ‘A sus ordenes, mi General.’
Stepping back into the lobby, Guzmán retrieved his coat. He looked round for Peralta and saw him coming down the corridor holding two bulging bags of food.
> ‘Nearly forgot,’ Peralta grinned.
Guzmán walked to the door, standing to one side as Valverde came back in, tossing his cigar stub down the steps in a fury. He looked at Peralta in passing.
‘Fucking clown. You can stay in that police station until you retire, you halfwit.’
Guzmán watched the general flounce back inside the building. He turned to the officer in charge of the door and asked for their weapons. ‘So what was your plan for dealing with those Caribbean pimps?’ Guzmán asked the officer.
The man looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry, sir. We’d no idea they’d be armed. But orders were to let them in.’
‘Whose orders?’ Guzmán lit a cigarette.
‘The general, sir. A direct order.’
Guzmán tilted his head back, inhaling deeply. He nodded. ‘Buenas noches, Capitán.’ Distracted, he threw his cigarette, underhand, into the mound of snow by the gate.
‘Give me a cigarette, Teniente,’ he snapped.
‘I’m out of them, sir. Sorry.’
In the car Guzmán sank back into the leather seat, deep in thought.
‘Where to, jefe?’ the driver asked.
‘Plaza Mayor,’ Guzmán said, preoccupied.
‘Sir, what about your date?’ Peralta was sitting, cradling the two large bags of food.
‘What?’
‘Your date, sir, with your…lady friend. You said you were seeing her later.’ He shook the bag as a reminder.
Guzmán’s heavy eyes flickered. ‘Ah yes. My lady friend.’ He took the gunny sack from Peralta. Through the rough fabric he could feel pies, packages of sandwiches, paper bags full of pastries – even a bottle of something. Clearly Raoul had been satisfied with his tip. Or, more likely, had been concerned to satisfy the two policemen. Guzmán felt amused at how the notion of police aroused sudden respect. If he were to spell out what he actually did, how much more compliant would they be then?
‘Lavapiés,’ Guzmán told the driver. ‘No, stop.’
The driver obeyed without question, pulling the car over to the side of the road.
‘Sorry, Teniente,’ Guzmán said, ‘I don’t have the time to drop you off. You’ll have to get a tram or a cab. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Guzmán sank back into his seat. Clearly the conversation was at an end. Peralta opened the car door and looked out uncertainly at the thick snow on the kerbside. He stepped from the car, grimacing as his feet sank deep into the snow.
‘Sir, I don’t suppose—’
The door slammed behind him.
Guzmán gave the address to the driver and the car glided away into the dim snow-light of Madrid.
Peralta began to walk, struggling to stay on his feet in the thick snow.
MADRID 1953, CALLE DE LA TRIBULETE
Señora Martinez opened the door. Framed in faint light from the room behind her, she was pale and her eyes were red.
‘Comandante.’
‘You didn’t think I’d come?’
‘No, not at all, I knew you would. Come in.’
Guzmán took off his hat and stepped onto the mat, stamping snow from his shoes. He put down the gunny sack. ‘There’s some food in here. From the reception. It’s good stuff. I thought you might like it. You and the boy.’
‘Thank you.’ She was polite. Polite, he noted, not grateful.
‘Franco’s own chef made some of that.’ Guzmán felt a sudden need to emphasise the importance of his gift.
‘Then I look forward to eating it.’ Her voice was soft. ‘It will be the first time the Caudillo has provided anything for this family.’
Guzmán looked at her. Had she really just said that? In some circles it would be enough to count as sedition.
Señora Martinez gestured towards the armchair. ‘Please sit down, Comandante.’
Guzmán took off his coat and handed it to her. He sat down. She remained at his side, holding his coat like a waitress. Guzmán raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’
She pointed to the hat on his lap. ‘Shall I take that?’
He handed it to her brusquely. She moved to the small hallway and hung up his hat and coat carefully. Guzmán watched the way her hips moved in the shabby dress. He was not encouraged.
Señora Martinez sat by the table, not far from Guzmán. She sat demurely, hands folded in her lap. Guzmán saw how chapped and raw her hands were.
‘Is the boy in bed?’ he asked.
‘He’s staying with a friend tonight.’
There was an awkward silence. The whole situation was awkward for Señora Martinez, but Guzmán too was uncomfortable. He found himself disconcerted by this tired, shabby woman who, for all her fearful acquiescence this afternoon, now looked at him without averting her gaze. Her eyes were pale blue, he noted. This was not how he had envisaged things, sitting in tense silence maintaining sitting-room formality. It was certainly nothing like the brothels he usually frequented. This was a proper woman. One who would expect small talk. He had met such women but now he was visiting one socially. He corrected himself. Almost socially.
‘Would the comandante care for a drink?’ Señora Martinez asked, maintaining her formal manner. ‘I have some wine.’
‘By all means,’ Guzmán said, ‘but, por dios, can’t you address me as tú? Why so formal?’
Señora Martinez looked at Guzmán. Her eyes were the only part of her that did not seem faded or exhausted. ‘I would prefer to use usted, Comandante, and I would prefer the comandante to do the same.’
‘Como usted quiere.’ Guzmán nodded, unable to break the icy barrier separating them. This was a new feeling for him. With anyone else he would have reacted differently. But this delicate woman interested him. That in itself was a novelty.
‘A glass of wine. Yes, thank you, Señora.’
She went into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of red wine. Guzmán took one, thankful to have something to occupy himself with. He took a drink. The wine was cheap and sharp: in a restaurant Guzmán would have sent it back. He drank half the glass quickly.
‘Do you work, señora?’ he asked.
Señora Martinez took a sip of wine and placed her glass on a small mat on the table. Her actions were controlled and contained, enacted within her own world, a world apart from Guzmán’s.
‘Actually I have two jobs,’ she said quietly. ‘I work at a fishmonger’s in the mornings and during the afternoon I help out at a grocery.’
No wonder she looks so tired, Guzmán thought.
He looked past her, noting the photograph of her husband had gone and in its place there was now a gaudy crucifix; Christ’s wounds were highlighted in some sort of reflective paint, flickering in the weak light.
‘It must be hard work?’ Guzmán’s thoughts were reverting to the Dominicans, wishing he had been able to deal with them properly on the steps of the capitanía.
‘It’s the only work I can get. People don’t want to employ the widow of a…’
‘Red?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was sharp.
If she became any more brittle, Guzmán thought, she would shatter at the first touch. Not that he had any desire to touch her right now, he realised. ‘But you found work anyway? That took some doing, señora.’
He saw tears welling in her pale eyes.
‘It won’t last, Comandante. They offer employment but then, when you start work, they begin to suggest you do things.’ Her voice broke and she threw her head back, as if shaking those thoughts away. When she spoke again her voice was stronger.
‘They expect things. The sort of things men make women do if they can. When their wives are out or away. They think a widow is always desperate for a man. And if they think you’re a Red, they also think you’re a whore.’
‘I thought you Reds believed in free love, no marriage – that sort of thing?’
Her reaction startled him. Her pale eyes flashed, bright with anger, and she leaned forward, staring at him fiercely.
‘Jesús Cristo, you call me a Re
d. Bien. Go ahead. They all do. Because of what my husband did. It’s easy for you to judge, Comandante, like all men. When the war started, we’d been married a week. We lived here in Madrid. I had nothing to do with politics, and my husband very little. But Madrid was Republican. We saw the killings here, saw them kill the soldiers who rose up to support Franco. They burned the Montaña Barracks, slaughtered the garrison. There were patrols all over, seeking out those on the right. You were on their side or you weren’t. Do you think we could have just said we wanted to stay out of it? Asked if it would it be all right if we didn’t join in the war because we were on honeymoon? Do you?’
Her voice had risen. Guzmán saw the anger on her face. Had she reacted like that earlier in the day, he would have slapped her. Now he thought it admirable.
‘You didn’t want to support the Reds?’ Guzmán said.
‘I didn’t want to support the war.’ She looked fiercely at him. ‘Do you know what I wanted? I wanted a proper honeymoon, but I never got it. My husband went straight into the militia. He decided it was for the best, that he should show willing. He marched off thinking France, America or Britain would soon step in, and then the fighting would soon be over.’
‘And he never came back?’
‘No. As far as I know, he was killed after being captured.’
‘So many were, señora,’ Guzmán said, speaking from experience. A lot of it.
‘And so many were left behind, Comandante. Like me, and now with my poor sister’s child to look after. And what are we? Rojos. So despicable people won’t speak to us but not so despicable that men don’t see us as easy meat, as women who will save them the cost of a whore. Men like…’ She paused, suddenly aware she had said too much but nonetheless unable to curb her anger.
‘Me,’ Guzmán said, finishing his wine. It really was piss, he thought.
‘You. Yes.’
She slumped in her chair, the anger draining from her. Her hands draped loosely in her lap and her face was pale and angular in the half light. Guzmán got up and walked across the room to the kitchen. He brought back the bottle of wine and filled their glasses, careful not to spill any. He placed the bottle on the table. Señora Martinez looked at him. ‘Put it on a mat,’ she said, ‘you’ll leave a mark.’
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 21
