To his surprise, Guzmán did so. ‘So you have to sleep with the grocer and the fishmonger to get work?’ he asked.
‘Mierda, do you really take me for someone who’d do that?’ Once more the flame flickered in her mist-coloured eyes and her cheeks flushed with anger. A tendril of tawny hair fell across her forehead. Animated like that, Guzmán thought she was lovely. Anger was a marvellous thing.
‘I was only asking,’ he snapped. ‘You were telling me. How do I know if you don’t tell me?’
‘I don’t sleep with anyone,’ Señora Martinez said, her voice was tired now. ‘Not the grocer, not the fishmonger, not anyone. I haven’t slept with anyone since my husband. And even then, he went away so soon…’ Once more she struggled against incipient tears. And won, Guzmán noticed. He poured another drink. He inclined the bottle towards her glass. She shook her head.
‘Bueno,’ she said. ‘You didn’t come here to hear my life story, I’m sure. You made it clear what you wanted earlier today. Very clear.’
‘I was angry then,’ Guzmán said, defensively, ‘your attitude annoyed me.’
Señora Martinez sat up straight in her chair. She stared at Guzmán. ‘Listen, if I had to do this just to save myself, you could forget it. I’d rather go to prison. Or be shot. I wouldn’t give in. But for the child…’
‘I understand.’
She laughed. ‘I very much doubt it, Comandante. If you understood, you wouldn’t ask me to be your whore.’
‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ Guzmán said. It was exactly what he had expected.
‘No, of course not. You’re not paying. In any case, you’ll have to guide me, Comandante. I’m afraid my inexperience will be a great disappointment to you. But I’m sure the conquest of another Red will make up for that. So how do we begin? Do your whores lead you to the bedroom? Is that what you’re waiting for?’
Guzmán was deeply uncomfortable now. Not only was Señora Martinez unsettling him but his concentration was slipping, his mind drifting back to the Dominicans. Giving this exhausted woman instructions in sex was the last thing he wanted to do.
‘Firstly we’d have to agree a price,’ he said, glancing over to his hat and coat hanging in the hall.
‘You said if I… complied, you wouldn’t take my nephew away. That was the price we agreed, I assume.’
‘Yes.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Then we’d have a drink.’
‘Which we have.’
‘And then,’ Guzmán said, ‘I’d watch you undress until you were naked.’ Although that would up the price considerably, he recalled. And even then, many whores were reluctant to undress completely. Some of them were quite respectable.
Señora Martinez jerked as if she had been given an electric shock. ‘Sinvergűenza. Desnuda? Have you no shame, Comandante? Even my own husband never asked me that. You really have got a low opinion of me. It’s too much.’ Her head sank for a moment. ‘Too much.’ She took a deep breath.
‘You asked me how the whores would do it. Nada más. I didn’t mean to imply… besides, señora, no one could be naked in this apartment. It’s freezing.’
‘So how do you expect me to act as a whore for you, Comandante?’
Guzmán sighed. He had had enough of this. He got up from the chair. ‘Señora, you don’t have to do anything. I can see now I was wrong about you. Misguided in the war, yes – but that was your husband’s choice. And afterwards, I can see you did what you had to, in order to look after the child. I misjudged you.’ It was a weak thing to say. But now, facing her, it was how he felt.
She stood up. Her face had softened a little, but only because she feared he was still a threat, he realised.
‘Look, don’t take my boy,’ she said. ‘You can do what you want. Anything. I’m sorry, I have a temper sometimes.’
‘I’ve no intention of taking the boy.’ Guzmán began to put on his coat. Or sleeping with you, he thought. Bloody hell, I bet her husband shot himself rather than put up with her for a lifetime. And a temper as well? Hostia!
‘You won’t take Roberto? You promise?’
‘Absolutely, señora. Le juro.’
Now she was confused. ‘I don’t understand you, Comandante.’
‘That makes two of us, señora.’ Guzmán put on his hat and opened the door.
Her hand closed on his arm. ‘You really mean it? About not taking Roberto?’
Guzmán turned, her hand still tight on his arm. It was not an unpleasant feeling. He had an idea. ‘There’s one thing I would ask, señora.’
Her face fell. ‘Which is?’
‘I’d like to see you again. All I ever see are policemen, prisoners and the occasional whore.’ He noticed her expression. ‘Socially. No obligation, I promise you. A meal, maybe the cinema?’ He had said it. He felt a fool but he had said it. Now she would mock him. Fuck it, he’d tried.
She was standing close. Guzmán looked down at her, her pale face, the threadbare clothes, the defiant blue eyes now wide with surprise.
‘Well, if it was really like that. I never get asked out. Not in a decent manner, anyway. If you mean it, that is?’
‘I do, señora.’ Guzmán handed her his card. ‘Call me. When it suits you, of course.’
‘Very well. I will, Comandante.’
‘One more thing.’ Guzmán took out his notebook and pencil. ‘This grocer and the fishmonger, give me their addresses.’
‘Why?’ Her voice was suspicious again.
‘Because,’ Guzmán said, ‘I’ll see they won’t bother you again with improper demands. In fact, Señora Martinez, they’ll probably treat you as if you were a member of Franco’s family after I’ve had a word.’
He wrote down the names and addresses in his notebook and stepped out into the cold darkness of the landing. Señora Martinez brushed past him, and switched on the miserable electric light. She smelled of soap.
‘Buena noches, Comandante.’
The door closed before he could reply.
His feet echoed on the stone stairs as he made his way down to the street. What the fuck happened? he wondered. He had asked her out. A decent woman. On a date. Hostia, all things are possible. Across the street the lights of the Hispano-Suiza flashed as the driver saw Guzmán leave the building.
I could have made a fool of myself, he thought, still unsure as to whether he had left Alicia Martinez’s apartment or she had got rid of him. But she agreed. The car quietly drifted to the kerbside, the powerful engine humming. He needed a drink. It was late, but not so late he couldn’t find somewhere where he could drink enough to clear his mind of the formidable Señora Martinez.
MADRID 1953, PLAZA MAYOR
The car dropped Guzmán on the edge of the Plaza Mayor. It was late and only a couple of bars were still open, their windows glimmering pale defiance to the icy night. Guzmán watched the car drive off. He was angry. Angry because he had been brooding again about the Dominicans. He felt the rage run through him, pictured acts of violence in repeated sequences of intensifying ferocity until he felt his veins bulge as the anger pounded through him. He stopped by the statue of Felipe Tres in the centre of the cobbled square and looked round. Desolate and icy, the square was empty, with no sign of anyone following him. Guzmán’s shoes crunched on the snow-covered cobbles as he headed for the nearest bar. The bar was dingy, almost empty, the air blurred by a fug of stale tobacco smoke. Two elderly men in heated discussion by a window. The barman was sitting behind the bar, his ear against a radio turned so low Guzmán could barely hear the martial music coming from it. He ordered a large brandy and sat nursing it. The old men’s voices faded to a dull murmur as Guzmán began to think over the events of the day.
Something was troubling him and it wasn’t – unlike for Peralta – killing fifteen men in cold blood. Things were happening. Things Guzmán sensed were wrong even though he was not sure why. Valverde was becoming a problem and Guzmán cursed himself for allowing the general to draw him further into his grubby world of patronage and bribery. On
the other hand, he reflected, he had stashed the general’s money away and there was no proof he had taken it. Taking a bribe alone wasn’t going to bring him down – that depended on who the bribe came from, and what it was for. And he knew if Valverde fell from grace, those associated with him might also find themselves in a similar position, war hero or not.
And then there was Señora Martinez. How in hell had he thought she would be worth getting into bed? Jesus. No wonder her husband joined up so quickly. Probably wanted to get away while he still had his balls. Still, she was some woman when she got angry. She’d stood up to Guzmán better than most men ever did. When she talked to him, she looked him in the eye. That too had impressed him. And though she was no whore, she would have done what he wanted to save the boy. She wasn’t a Red. Just a survivor. And a hard worker. Those were impressive credentials in his book, particularly for a woman. She interested him.
He stared into his brandy, occasionally shifting his gaze to the glittering collection of bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Valencia – the original Scotch Whiskí, read one label, in Spanish. Guzmán stared at it and then at the mirror behind. Outside, a man in a dark coat and hat walked slowly past the window. Guzmán lifted his glass and turned to offer a toast to the watcher in the shadows but he melted back into the night, stepping outside the weak pool of light radiating from the bar. Fuck him, Guzmán thought. Then the rage flared up and the urge to kill flowed through him, an urge too strong to resist. He had no wish to resist it.
He finished the brandy and threw a handful of coins onto the bar. He moved quickly, opening and closing the bar door behind him without making any noise. Outside, the columned walkway running around the outside of the square was empty.
Guzmán listened, his hand reaching inside his coat for the heavy automatic. He held the gun low by his side, and took a step forward towards the column in front of him, his slow careful footsteps sounding ridiculously loud in the silence. He swung the pistol up as he turned the corner of the column. Nothing. Guzmán looked again in the direction the man had been heading.
There was no one there.
He had no intention of sneaking from column to column around the entire square and decided to return to the bar. As he turned back, the light in the bar was suddenly extinguished.
Guzmán heard a metallic click somewhere in the darkness of the night-shadowed square and hurled himself to the ground, rolling behind the pillar as a blast of machine-gun fire tore across the spot where he had been standing a moment earlier. Glass shattered and the whine of ricochets echoed around the walkway. Guzmán edged closer to the column to try to see where the gunfire had come from. A second burst of fire rattled across the cobbles a metre away from his hiding place, throwing up a mist of stinging stone as the bullets ricocheted once more, their banshee whine echoing in the darkness.
Guzmán stood with his back to the column, straining to locate his attackers before he made his move. And he would make his move, he knew, because staying here only invited them to take up better positions. He ducked low, moving around the column, his pistol extended, covering the dark square. Nothing. He swivelled back, scanning the walkway on the far side of the square. The night was freezing, but for Guzmán nothing existed outside the immediate parameters of his senses, a world viewed through the sight of the large pistol as he searched the square for movement.
Behind the cover of the pillar, Guzmán scanned the walkway to left and right. If they were doing it properly, there would be at least three of them. One somewhere across the square to keep him pinned down and two more to slip round on the flanks. He decided to make a move. Lights had flickered on around the square after the initial burst of gunfire but they had gone off again quickly. No one wanted to get involved in something that was none of their business. Certainly no one had phoned the police – there would have been the bells of the patrol cars by now – meaning Guzmán could expect no help. Which was as it had always been, he reflected, wiping sweat from his heavy face.
Crouching low, Guzmán moved quickly to the next pillar. It only took a few seconds, running at a crouch with his automatic extended towards the darkened square. Nothing. His breath had quickened and he made himself take deep slow breaths as he prepared to continue his dash to the next pillar. Three pillars to go. About thirty metres, and then he would reach the corner of the square. Working his way up that side, he would be able to reach the Calle Mayor and then make his way back down to the Puerta del Sol. He took another deep breath, straining to detect a sound that would indicate where they were. If they were still there. He moved again, crouching and aiming. To his left, the comforting reassurance of the bars and shops; ahead, the narrow walkway, striped by indistinct light. No retreat, only the advance. He passed one pillar and continued forward, legs aching from the constant crouching and kneeling, fighting to control his rage.
The gunfire was painfully loud and seemed to come from every direction. Windows to his left shattered, great shards of glass crashing on the stone floor of the walkway. Bullets ricocheted along the roof of the walkway, exploding against the darkened stones. Guzmán hit the ground and a red-hot pain tore across his leg just above the knee. He cursed as a second burst of machine-gun fire came from the direction of the statue in the centre of the square. A hail of bullets screamed less than a metre above Guzmán as he hugged the ground. The shooting stopped. Guzmán peered towards the dark mass of the statue and saw a slight movement in the darkness. He fired two shots, harsh whiplash cracks accompanied by the tinkling of the ejected cartridges.
Footsteps behind him.
Guzmán rolled onto his back, sitting up in a sudden swift motion, bringing his pistol to bear on the man coming around the corner of the square towards him. Guzmán fired, hitting him in the chest and sending him reeling back into a teetering stack of chairs outside a café. The chairs clattered noisily in all directions. The man lay where he fell.
Guzmán began moving quickly to the far corner of the square, still intent on reaching Calle Mayor. He heard movement and huddled behind the nearest pillar as a raking machine-gun blast carved across the stone, destroying the windows of the shops behind. Guzmán dived to the ground and fired three shots in the direction of the machine gun. There was an angry curse in the darkness and Guzmán heard something heavy and metallic hit the cobbles. As he lay on the icy stones, Guzmán saw a dim shape hobbling across the square and raised the Browning, steadying his right hand with his left to improve his aim. He squeezed the trigger.
‘Hijo de la gran puta.’ Guzman grunted.
There was no shot, just the sharp sound of the hammer on the empty chamber. The magazine was empty. Guzmán struggled to his feet, aware for the first time of the blood running down his leg. Barbed pain lanced through the wound as he tried to pursue the fleeing man. And then a bellowed curse as he lost his footing on a patch of ice and fell heavily to the ground. With no time to reload, Guzmán gripped the pistol by its barrel as a make-do bludgeon. The expected attack never came and as he hauled himself up, he heard footsteps fading in the darkness on the far side of the square.
Leaning against a pillar, he reloaded the automatic. The night was glassily silent. He heard only a faint ringing in his ears caused by the percussion of gunfire, and tasted the familiar astringent smell of cordite in the still air. Pistol first, he moved cautiously down the walkway towards the café where the dead man was lying. Where he should have been lying. In the shadows it was possible to make out the skeletal wreckage of the chairs but there was no trace of the dead man. Guzmán took out his lighter and snapped it into flame. The café doorway was illuminated in flickering light, turning the objects around him into vague monochrome etchings. Blood stains glinted black against the night-glazed flagstones. A large dark pool marked the spot where the man had fallen. Slick wavering tracks led away down the side of the square where someone had dragged him – he hadn’t walked away by himself, Guzmán knew, given the amount of blood left behind. In the faint light, he saw the long shattered row
of windows around the edge of the square.
They were good, Guzmán thought, as he made his way from the square down a series of side streets, pistol held by his side. Professional and daring as well. They had dragged the dead man away quickly and very quietly. Too quiet for his liking, since he had been unable to tell if they were Dominicans or not. Guzmán would have preferred that they were. But from the noise they had made earlier at Valverde’s reception, he doubted if they could have stayed so silent during the attack. He looked round again, inhaling the thin sharp air, his breath a steaming halo in the pale street light.
The pain in his leg was very bad. How could a shard of glass hurt so much? It would slow him down, he thought angrily. He thought about returning to his piso. A few hours in bed and a couple of glasses of brandy would see him right. But it was possible they’d second guess that move and already be waiting there. Or they might be staking out the comisaría in case he went there. He felt a wave of rage, made worse by his hesitancy.
The comisaría. He made the decision as soon as he saw his leg, increasingly aware of the blood filling his shoe. He examined the wound. A deep bloody groove carved out of the flesh above his knee. It was more than a piece of glass, there was possibly a bullet in there. He used his handkerchief to staunch the bleeding. He needed to get back to the comisaría but he took his time in binding the wound with the handkerchief and then his tie. No use pressing on and hoping the bleeding would stop. He’d seen men in the war fighting on despite a gaping wound, unaware of their life’s blood draining away. Guzmán felt his senses dulling. He was fucked if he was going to collapse. It was not that bad, he told himself. But it would slow him down and that made him vulnerable – and therefore angry: Comandante Guzmán was not a person to tolerate vulnerability – especially in himself. Señora Martinez was vulnerable but she argued with me anyway. His thoughts were becoming tangled. It was important to keep moving. If his legs would obey him.
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 22
