by Lucy Wadham
THIRTY-SIX
After only two nights, Mikel was growing attached to the smell in his van. Castro’s fur gave off a scent like burnt sugar and his warm breath, which enveloped them both at night, made human breath offensive to him in its blandness. The blind man’s breath was making him lean back a little now as they sat together at the bar in a café in the village of Ascain where he had been working at the market. Castro seemed like a model of good digestion in comparison to this creature.
You don’t listen, Mikel. Do you?
Mikel gave the old man a light slap on the shoulder.
I’m afraid I may have lost the knack of human intercourse.
Don’t touch me.
Forgive me …
It’s something I have been unable to tolerate since I lost my sight.
I understand.
You don’t!
Castro jumped to his feet and snarled, baring his teeth, neck outstretched, eyes savage.
Easy boy, Mikel soothed.
Castro lay down again, keeping the man with the stick always in his sights.
Mikel faced Itxua with new attention.
What can I do for you, old friend?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m here to find out what I might do for you.
Castro growled.
I’m doing as well as I could have imagined. Mikel reached down to scratch his dog between the ears. I have a job I enjoy and an honest companion. He sat up and looked at the blind man who was listening carefully, his head jutting forward. Mikel could see the faces of all the Basque prisoners reflected in the old man’s glasses. The faces came from the poster on the wall behind him. Thank you for asking, he said.
Itxua leaned forward and the faces of the prisoners disappeared.
I offer my help, Mikel, because you are a superior man …
Mikel shook his head. An unpleasant taste had settled in his throat.
You are a man of great integrity. I’ve always known this and I’m not alone. Your life should have been different. You were made for leadership. I have often puzzled over the circumstances that led you to lead the wrong life.
Mikel shook his head again and looked away. He caught the barman’s eye and nodded at him. He was hungry now and wanted his supper. Itxua was an unwelcome intrusion from the past. He should have known as soon as the old man walked up to his van and invited him for a drink. But he was so changed, so diminished, Mikel had taken pity on him, had imagined that the venom had gone from him.
The old man took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Gently Mikel took the packet, lit one for him and put it between his lips. Itxua drew deeply on the cigarette.
I’m here to talk to you about Txema Egibar.
What about him?
I’m here to warn you that he is no friend to you.
Mikel smiled.
You’re probably right.
He is a disgrace!
Itxua spat these words. Here was real bitterness, Mikel thought. He looked down at Castro and saw that he too wanted his supper.
I must tell you something about myself, he said. I’ve been in prison for most of my life. And I have learned something. Probably only one thing. The importance of leading a simple life.
Itxua turned his head away in disgust.
A simple life. What is that? How is it possible to lead a simple life in a complex universe, unless you are either mad or a simpleton? He stubbed out his cigarette in a tin ashtray on the bar.
I may well be mad. I cannot rule that out.
The old man made a guttural noise that set Castro growling again.
That dog is a liability, he said.
Mikel let his hand dangle so that Castro could lick it. He wanted the old man to leave now. He could feel anger gathering and he knew that anger had put the sour taste in his throat. Castro stopped licking his hand and lay down.
What exactly do you want? Mikel asked, his voice cold.
Itxua leaned towards him so that Mikel found himself enshrouded in his foul breath again.
I want to help you. You should know that Txema would like you dead.
Mikel closed his eyes.
I don’t want to hear this, Itxua. And he stood up. This is shit, he said.
This, this, this. This is your life, Mikel. Your duty, your heritage.
Fuck my heritage. I’m a free man.
Itxua smiled.
Have you have forgotten that there’s no such thing as a free man?
Well what on earth are you all fighting for then?
We’re fighting for our dignity.
I’m afraid I don’t know what that means. But I think that whatever it is, I’m not interested in it. It’s certainly not worth killing or dying for.
You’re not mad, Mikel. You’re a simpleton.
Mikel slammed his hand down on the bar catching the edge of the tin ashtray which clattered to the floor. Castro jumped up.
Itxua stepped back. Mikel reached out to support him.
Don’t touch me! Keep your dog away from me.
Mikel clicked his fingers and Castro came to heel.
The old man seemed to be quivering with rage. Mikel watched. He was dimly aware that the longer he stayed in his company, the more he would pay.
Listen to me, Mikel, Itxua said, trying to soften. I am your friend. I have known you since you were a child. I want to help you. But the anger was still there in his mouth, in his purple gills. Txema has what does not belong to him, he went on. You must get it back.
Get it back? And give it to whom?
Don’t, Itxua began. Then he stopped. Don’t, he said again, shaking his head.
You know, for years I wondered if Txema had that money, Mikel said. I wondered in prison for a long time and then I stopped wondering. I realised that I didn’t care whether he did or not. I thought, if he does, I feel sorry for him. He can’t spend it and he’s living in fear, which is a worse prison than the one I’ve known.
That money doesn’t belong to him.
Who does it belong to? He waited, but Itxua said nothing. Mikel saw that he had retrenched. It belongs to the Basques who earned it …
Who earned it through collaboration with the occupying forces and exploitation of their people, Itxua said. I personally have never doubted his guilt, he went on. But proof is of course needed. There have always been a few who thought it was you. But they tended to be Txema’s lieutenants. I knew when I saw you in that van of yours and I caught the stench that you live in that it couldn’t possibly have been you.
Mikel longed to leave but knew it was important to hear the end.
Txema has been careful, the old man went on. He’s a disciplined man, I’ll say that for him. Setting up an import-export company covered the purchase of the café, the villa his mother lives in and that ridiculous car he drives. All those purchases were investigated by people who know about fraud and nothing was found. We believe that he gets advice from someone who once advised us and who is now living in Venezuela.
Ah, there it was, the ‘We’ Mikel could no longer abide.
The man’s alias is ‘The Belgian’, Itxua said.
I’m afraid I can’t listen to this, Mikel interrupted. I wish no disrespect to you. But I must go.
You will go when I have finished.
I’m sorry, Mikel said.
We have a copy of your cantada, Mikel.
I don’t give a shit.
It is in safe hands. We know you did no wrong.
Itxua. You can tell ‘We’, they can do what they like with my cantada.
Itxua grabbed his wrist and clamped against the bar.
If you don’t testify against Txema, Mikel, then you’ll put yourself in danger.
Mikel looked at the hand gripping his.
Let go of me.
Castro was snarling. Itxua let go. He was making a kind of smile that looked like a gash in his face.
You can go, he said, relenting suddenly. Of course you wouldn’t betray Txema. You’re one of us.
> Mikel hesitated, suspicious of the change of tone.
Just then Castro trotted out through the open door of the café. He thinks I should leave him the last word, Mikel thought. And he’s right.
Mikel followed his dog back to the van and began counting the takings for that morning. The unpleasant taste still hung in his throat, though he chain-smoked to try and cover it. Castro slept fitfully in the back. Occasionally he would puff air out through his flews, his flank would quiver and his paws would twitch. Mikel looked up to see Itxua walking across the deserted square to a beige Renault 12 parked next to the church. A street lamp jutting out from the church wall lit the scene. He watched the driver climb out and help Itxua into the passenger seat and he recognised his former lawyer, Gomez Igari. He saw them drive slowly away. How could a couple of old men still have so much harm in them? He turned back to the hardbound notebook his employer had given him. He tried to put Itxua out of his mind. He enjoyed writing in neat capitals between the columns: article, quantity, cost. It was simple, sane work.
*
Castro was panting. The sock was slowing him down. As he ran, he tried to shake it off. Every time his bad paw struck the pavement his left eye twitched with the pain. He was running through a town that smelt of fish. The salt in the air made him thirstier still. His tongue lolled as he ran. He came to an overturned dustbin. Rotting fruit. He plunged his nose into the refuse and jumped back, yelping in pain. The bee in its death throes clung to his nose. He shook his head wildly, spraying saliva. There was no food and no master. He found himself on the beach where he had trodden on the deadly metal thorn. He walked, head hanging, to the sea and dipped his throbbing nose in the water. He lapped twice then lay down in the sea and let the water wash over him. As he lay there he saw a man walking towards him across the sand, his dark figure distorted by the heat. When he drew close Castro saw it was the man with the black glasses and the stick. Again, he bared his teeth, but the man called him and spoke to him of food in a good man’s voice. And Castro followed him along the beach, keeping his distance until they reached the park where the children play with the ball and it was night and the place was lit up with lights that blinded him. He blinked, trying to avoid the light, but wherever he turned it shone into his eyes. All the time the man talked to him in his good man’s voice and Castro kept blinking against the light, waiting for the food that he could smell now, and he whined for joy. Then the lights went out. At first there were spots in his eyes and he could not see. Then he saw: his master, lying on the hard ground, his body open. The man with the black glasses was standing behind his master’s body, calling him forward. Eat, said the bad man, and Castro saw butcher’s bones lying in his master’s body, big bones with flesh on them. But his master was alive and calling him: Good boy, Castro. Eat. And Castro began to yelp and cry. Then something gripped his throat and he snapped his jaws shut.
*
It’s all right, boy. Mikel soothed. You’re alright. He could see fear in the dog’s eyes. He put his hand on Castro’s chest. His heart was racing. You’re alright, boy. Come on, let’s walk.
He locked the van and they walked through the empty market place, Mikel waiting for Castro while he sniffed at the debris and then took the path, scattered with boulders, that led through the chestnut grove. A harvest moon hung low in the sky and Mikel tried to enjoy the night breeze and the smell of freshly cut hay. He hummed ‘Desperado’, a song that he had always loved, but he could not escape the sensation that Itxua, his voice, his rationale, was polluting his mind.
He stopped humming and talked to Castro:
What exactly do they want? They want the money back, right? Castro shot off through a gap in the beech hedge.
No doubt, Mikel thought, making him denounce Txema was simply a way of putting pressure on him to give up the money in exchange for his life. Then they would kill Txema afterwards. And probably me as well, he said aloud. Castro was at his side again, trotting unevenly. What do you think, boy? Will they kill me too?
Itxua had wanted him for a leadership position; something in the public eye like the refugee committee. Mikel gave a short laugh at the idea.
Whatever it was that had been holding his anger at bay then gave way. Mikel made a fist and punched hard at a tree trunk. He felt nothing for several seconds, then smiled at the pain and the sight of the blood blooming on his knuckles.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Kader looked through the passenger window into the Volvo and smiled. He would have sung for joy if he had been alone but people were watching him. He supposed that in a place like this, a face like his would not go unnoticed for long. Let’s not even think about your mug, Amadou, he thought. He looked for any trace of his presence in her impeccable car and found none.
He walked into the hotel reception wishing that he was not on crutches. Yes, he wanted to say to the man behind the counter, an Arab and a cripple. But the man was friendly and spoke to him in English.
Do you speak French? Kader asked him.
Yes. How can I help you?
The man had a pale face and eyebrows that were blacker and covered more of his forehead than most humans. Kader sensed the eyebrows had been a problem in his life.
Is Astrid Arnaga staying here?
She is. I’ll just ring up to her room. What is your name?
Kader hesitated.
Kader, he said.
The man picked up the receiver and pressed a button on his antiquated switchboard. Pressed was hardly the word: it was more like a push that engaged the full motion of his right arm. The number nineteen lit up orange.
He spoke to Astrid in Spanish but Kader knew that the conversation was not going the way he would have liked. He pretended that he had not understood and wedged his crutches snugly in his armpits, ready to proceed.
She says that she does not want to be disturbed.
I’ll come back later, then.
She says that she doesn’t want to see you. That you should go.
His manner was patient but suddenly Bushy had become more like a wolf than a squirrel. Kader scanned the premises. There was no lift and on crutches he doubted that he could outrun him. He decided to retreat.
*
He went to the café next door and bought himself a bottle of beer and a sandwich with an omelette in it, and returned to the big square up the hill. A few remaining children were playing football under the floodlights. Kader sat and drank his beer and ate the sandwich, which was not nearly as bad as he had anticipated. He wished he could have played with the kids. Instead he shouted instructions:
Spread out! he yelled. Don’t all chase the ball, you fucking halfwits!
They ran about, craning their necks, trying to understand.
When he had finished eating, he returned to the hotel. He walked through the lobby without greeting Bushy, who was watching a football match on a TV screen so far above his head that he had to tilt back his chair.
As he reached the stairs, he heard Bushy’s chair clatter to the floor and a muffled shout. He hobbled as fast as he could up the stairs, trying to keep his hip still, but each step produced red-hot pain. Bushy overtook him in the narrow corridor and stood before him, out of breath. His eyebrows had taken on a life of their own.
You have to leave. You can’t be up here.
Kader cast a glance to either side of him. Room number thirteen to his right, fifteen to his left. He was not far but there was no getting past Bushy who, from his calm expression, seemed to bear him no hard feelings. He just stood there, waiting for Kader to draw back.
Kader thought of the karate master back home. The man’s quiet voice, his long blond hair and his headband had annoyed the shit out of him. It is all a matter of approach, he would say. You must pass through your adversary. Think of rushing water. This way your hand can slice through it. This way you will be swept away.
Bullshit, Kader thought, and he gave Bushy a firm push with both palms that sent him reeling backwards onto his arse. As he lunged towards Ast
rid’s door, Bushy’s fist grabbed his bad ankle and he cried out in pain. Bushy gave a sharp tug and pulled him to the floor.
Astrid’s door opened.
It’s all right, she said wearily. He can stay.
Bushy looked down at Kader, as though deciding whether or not to give him a kick, then turned and walked back along the corridor.
*
Kader stepped after her into the room. He could see nothing but red spots in the darkness. Then he saw her, sitting on the edge of the bed, her head bowed.
Why did you come? Her voice was so sad, for a moment Kader couldn’t answer.
Can I turn a light on?
No.
He hovered a moment, then sat down on the edge of the other bed and faced her, making sure his knees didn’t touch hers.
What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with your sister?
Astrid looked up and he strained to see her expression but could only see her outline.
I’m going back to Paris, she said.
Why? You just got here.
He could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was in despair. He sat facing her, so close that he could feel the warmth of her body. He had no desire to touch her. It felt to him that all the desire and rage that had driven him here had vanished and he was a kid again, but not the kid he had been, the one he was meant to have been.
He took her hand.
To Astrid, all movement had started to feel slow and laborious. She looked at her hand being held but could not hold his in return.
He let go and laid the crutches on the floor, then he knelt in the gap between the two beds and put his arms around her. He clasped her for some time and she listened to his breathing. Suddenly he pulled her hand from her lap and wrapped her arm around him.
Hold me, he said.
So she held him.
The more she clung to him, the more separate she felt.
Kader, she said. She held him closer, trying to annihilate his pain with the strength of her embrace. She could feel the discomfort of a new kind of deceit settling into her heart. She pulled away.
What have you done to yourself? she asked.
