by Lucy Wadham
Itxua was sitting at a table at the back of the cafeteria. He wore dark glasses and had his chin raised. His blue Mao jacket was buttoned to the neck.
Gomez bowed slightly as he spoke.
Miss Arnaga is here, he said.
Thank you Maître Gomez. Would you mind leaving us?
Itxua’s voice sounded muffled. Lola wondered if it had been damaged in the explosion.
Gomez seemed relieved to be dismissed.
I’ll wait for you in the car, he told her.
When he had gone Lola sat down opposite Itxua. His hands were under the table. There was an empty coffee cup in front of him. Through the dark lenses he managed to stare at her. She imagined his chin was raised to pick up her scent.
I’m looking for Mikel, she said.
Itxua kept his black glasses trained on her. He took a packet of Craven ‘A’ from his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Lola could not watch him light it. She looked down at her lap.
Will you have something? he asked her.
She looked up at him.
No thank you.
You’re looking for Mikel Otegui, he said. Why?
She hesitated.
Personal reasons.
For me there is no such thing.
His bottom teeth showed when he spoke. They were badly stained.
He’s my …
Itxua suddenly blew hard, expelling smoke from his mouth. She started. He could not see her but she felt more deeply scrutinised than ever before.
Your what? he spat. Your boyfriend, he grimaced. Mikel is a man.
I know …
He is one of us.
He doesn’t …
Be quiet! he hissed. He paused to flick ash onto the floor.
Lola waited, trying to breathe slowly. She realised she was clutching her stomach. She waited but Itxua just went on smoking.
What have I done?
What are you talking about, you silly woman? You are of no interest to me.
Why am I here then?
Itxua tugged open his mouth to make a kind of smile.
I wanted to see you.
This, she realised, was as close as she had ever been to true madness. Her mother’s ramshackle mind was not madness, this was.
She stood up.
Sit down, Itxua hissed.
Lola’s eyes filled with tears. She sat down.
She did not look at him, trying with her posture to shield herself from him. Mikel had once said to her, There’s a price to be paid for seeking involvement with people who play around with death. The price, she realised, was the experience of fear. She waited, listening to the rattle in Itxua’s throat as he breathed.
I will leave first, he said. You will wait ten minutes. Then you will leave.
He picked up his cigarettes and put them in his pocket.
My stick please, he said, standing up.
Lola leant down and retrieved his white stick from the floor and handed it to him.
If you do find him, he whispered, his chin raised, tell him he has no debt to us.
I don’t believe you.
Her own anger took her by surprise. She pulled out of his way but he stopped so close to her that she was forced to lean back against the table.
He doesn’t need you, he hissed. He needs no one.
Lola watched him shuffle off then she sat down in her chair and stared at the space he had vacated. After a few minutes she put her face in her hands and waited in the dark for the fear to ebb away.
THIRTY-NINE
Later that evening there was to be a ‘Show of Strength’ on the pelota court. If there was one element of Euskal folklore that had always bored Txema, it was this ridiculous spectacle: two giants lifting boulders or hurling tree trunks or chopping logs at high speed. He still found himself hoping that someone would get hurt. Lorea had been behind the games, which always attracted a fair crowd and a good proportion of tourists. Txema was in his flat getting ready to make an appearance. He had two rooms above the pharmacy. The bedroom gave on to a vegetable garden at the back, planted in neat rows by the pharmacist’s wife. A large, plastic doll with blonde hair and ragged clothes was tied to a stake in the centre to frighten the birds away. Txema disliked the view, which at night when he couldn’t sleep became quite macabre, but he had never got around to telling his neighbours to get rid of the doll. As he was preparing to leave the flat, the telephone rang. It was Lorea.
Good news, she said. I’m coming over. Then she hung up.
Txema looked out through the open window at the doll in the garden. From up here one eye appeared to be closed. He could hear the murmur of the crowd gathering at the pelota court and the shrieks of small children. For the first time in his life, his dislike of children no longer seemed an impediment to having one of his own. If it turned out to be a girl, he thought, he would simply let Lorea deal with it.
As she stepped through the door Lorea was flushed and her eyes were shining. She threw her arms around his neck. The cigarette in his mouth singed her hair and she pulled back. But she was not irritated.
Oh Txema, she said, brushing smooth her hair with the flat of her hand. We’ve found him. He’s working the markets on the French side. He sells brooms from a van, she said, her face full of joy.
Txema looked at her until the joy had gone.
How do you know? he said at last.
My sister. She lowered her voice. Gomez saw him. He drove Itxua to meet him.
She’s sure?
Absolutely. Loli doesn’t make mistakes. The name on the van is Lamarck, she said, happy again.
Txema did not feel the excitement he would have expected. He watched Lorea step over to the window and look out.
I have to think, Lorea. I need to be alone. I’ll meet you later, at the games.
She turned and looked at him. A question came and went.
We’ll talk about it all later then, she said with bravado. Then she shifted her handbag to the other shoulder, kissed him on the mouth and left.
Alone, Txema went straight to the kitchen area and dislodged the wire panel from the extractor fan. He reached up inside the metal box and took down his old Browning. It was wrapped in a plastic Pryca bag that was covered in a layer of cooking fat. He threw the bag away and washed the grease off his hands. He unwrapped the gun from the chamois cloth and held it. The weight of it and the grip still gave him a thrill. He pulled out the clip, then reloaded. He aimed at the centre of the clock on the far wall, both hands, arms straight. Bang, he said. He slid the gun into his belt at the small of his back, pulled on his jacket and left the flat feeling younger than he had felt in years.
FORTY
When Lola heard Astrid’s voice, she froze. Paco must have felt her skin turn cold as her whole body withdrew its attention, making his touch a sudden intrusion. He pulled back.
Lola did not want to look at his face. She could feel his dejection.
I have to go down, she said. I have to face her.
Lola, Paco said. She always felt his voice should be deeper. He was a tenor, and with his build he should have been a bass. I won’t come back any more, he said.
He was pulling on his white shirt. He plucked nervously at his cuffs.
I have to go down, she told him.
Did you hear what I said?
She took both his hands in hers.
You know me, Paco. You have to decide what you want.
He watched her turn his huge hands in her long, thin fingers. He withdrew them and stood up.
I’ve decided, he told her. You’re cruel.
Then he stood up, pulled on his clothes and left the room.
When he had gone, Lola washed her hands in the sink in the corner. She looked at her face in the mirror and saw that Paco was right. She had survived, thanks in part to her cruelty. She dried her hands and held them to her nostrils. Her mother still had a supply of violet soap from England that she half loved and half hated. She put on a red dress with tiny white dots on it
that she had bought when she had first arrived in Paris. It was the first summer of Mikel’s incarceration and she had worn it to visit him. It was the only time he had commented on what she was wearing. The dress squashed her breasts and tended to ride up over her thighs as she walked but she liked it. That summer Mikel had been in love with her. There had been an intensity in his gaze then, which had soon disappeared. Three summers later he would be in love with Astrid.
Lola put on her sandals and went downstairs. Astrid was not in the kitchen. She found her in the sitting room. The evening sun poured through the window, lighting up the outline of Astrid’s hair and giving her a jagged, bronze halo.
Lola …
Shut up. I’m going to talk. I don’t want you to apologise.
Lola went and sat down on the piano stool. While smelling her violet-scented hands, she looked at Astrid long and hard.
She pointed at the sofa.
Sit there. I can’t see your face.
Slowly Astrid obeyed. Lola watched her walk to the sofa. She sat down and rested her hands on her thighs, waiting. She never crossed her legs.
I won’t forgive you, Lola said. You’re treacherous. Everything about you. I can see it in your face now. I’ve been looking at photos of you when you were a child. I can see that there’s always been something secretive about you. It’s as though you’ve always needed to hide things. It’s your way of controlling things.
Astrid opened her eyes wider. She had the feeling that the dying light in the room was affecting her vision. Lola appeared to her as she had never appeared before. She was like an exalted performer, unreachable. Astrid could only watch, and as she did so, she was overcome with a feeling of immense tiredness. She looked at Lola sitting there on the other side of the cluttered sitting room, perched on the piano stool, all in red against the emerald-green wallpaper, and she felt weak. She had watched people die while she operated on them but she had never felt as powerless as she did now.
What I don’t understand, Lola was saying, is why. You didn’t want him.
Astrid shook her head.
What? Lola barked. What? Are you saying that you don’t know either?
Lola.
What?
Lola.
For God’s sake, what?
Astrid’s voice seemed to be failing her.
Please. Lola. Forgive me.
Lola stared at Astrid. She was hunched over, her head buried in her arms. Lola watched and waited. But Astrid did not cry. She just sat there in a huddle. Lola stood up, took one step towards her, then changed her mind and left the room.
FORTY-ONE
The sky was thick with cloud as Mikel drove up into the mountains. The road wound through the forest of Sara, the same forest that had hidden Txema while he was being arrested by the Guardia. It was an ancient forest. The steep slopes were scattered with grand oaks and rocks covered in lichen. Poor Txema, Mikel thought.
The sun was setting as he drove into the village. On this side, the sky was miraculously clear. The bales of hay in the fields glowed orange. He crossed over the stone bridge and caught sight of the new playground, crawling with children. He smiled at the sight and patted his dog. When he turned the next hairpin bend, his smile vanished. The green field, covered with flowers at this time of year, had been stripped bare. Nothing was left but a bald slope of dry earth. He looked for a clue to the destruction but found none.
In the old days people would turn their heads to look when an unfamiliar car entered the village. Now there were too many people and too many cars. The place had become a tourist attraction. Mikel decided to continue on foot. He parked in a new lay-by beside a large, white mobile home with German registration.
A crowd flowed up with him towards the pelota court. An orange poster with black writing pinned to a plane tree announced an evening of Basque games. The years spent in this village must have been the best of his life. They were the years before knowledge, when the joy of being with Lola in that grand house was mingled with the joy of escaping from the slums of Renteria. The place, though, seemed not to know him. He walked among faces he recognised, unseen, forgotten.
Down the hill towards him came the old man with the slack mouth who talked to himself. He had been old twenty years ago and he was still old. He wore the same beret, pulled down over his ears, and the same dark jacket, buttoned too tightly over his belly. Mikel nodded at him as the man walked by, his mouth working, the lamentations pouring forth, but the old man did not see him. Castro halted a moment to watch him pass, then trotted after his master as best he could in his infernal sock. Mikel crossed the pelota court, passing the rostrum where the evening’s compère, a man of his age in a white shirt and black leather trousers, was testing his microphone. One two, one two, he boomed. Mikel walked up the steps of the town hall with Castro at his heels. Sit boy, he told him. Wait for me here. Then he stepped through the open door.
*
When Mikel walked through the door after one peremptory knock, Txema started to raise his hands in surrender. He even had to smooth back his hair to dissimulate the gesture, then he stood, remembered the gun at his back and the folly of allowing Mikel to embrace him, and held his hand out across the desk. Mikel walked towards him a little stiffly, Txema thought, and took his hand. Txema gripped hard, using both hands.
They grinned at each other and for a moment Txema allowed himself the pleasure of seeing his friend again. Then the mistrust returned and he let him go, patted him on the arm and said:
You’re limping. What did they do to you?
Mikel closed his eyes and Txema remembered this lazy way he had of expressing a negative.
It’s old age. Then he grinned at his friend. You’re fighting it, I see. But you can’t fool me. Your hair was never that black.
Course it was, Txema said lightly. But Mikel had turned his back and was moving to the window to watch the crowds gathering on the pelota court below.
You happy in this job?
Txema looked at his tall figure against the red sky. In this light he seemed unchanged. He was still imposing with his broad shoulders and bowed legs. Txema wished he could shoot him there and then.
It’s hard work but I enjoy it.
Mikel turned.
You built a playground.
His face was in shadow. Txema strained to make out his expression but could not.
We did.
Good job, Mikel said. Then he drove his hands into the pocket of his jeans, which Txema recognised as an indication of displeasure. What happened to the flower field?
The flower field?
The one we used to walk up on the way to target training.
Oh. That one. He smiled. It’s for trail bikes.
Pity.
Txema felt a flash of irritation. He sat down and leaned back into the large leather armchair but this did not help. Mikel’s righteousness still galled him. Mikel sat down on the small chair opposite his desk.
The place feels busier, he said, nodding slowly. And for the first time Txema saw the change. What he had at first mistaken for Mikel’s legendary aloofness had become something more unsettling, more antisocial. His thick grey hair was wild and unwashed and his hands, now busy rolling a cigarette, were covered in scabs. He looked unhinged.
You must be here to see Lola, Txema said.
Mikel drew on his cigarette, then spat a strand of tobacco from his lip.
I saw her, Txema went on. What was it? Two days ago. She looked well.
She does, Mikel said.
You’ve seen her?
I’ve seen her.
Good, Txema said. That’s good.
I had a visit from Itxua, Mikel said.
Txema folded his arms across his chest because he was afraid that his hands might shake.
Itxua, he repeated stupidly.
He knows you’ve got the money.
Txema could feel the gun pressing into his back. He could not move.
What money?
What are you g
oing to do, Txema?
Txema stared at him. All he could hear was the sound of the compère’s voice, getting shrill with enthusiasm. He could not answer.
Will you go to Venezuela? Mikel was asking him.
Why? Txema cleared his throat. Why Venezuela?
Isn’t your partner there?
The light had gone in the room and Mikel was a shadow.
What are you talking about? Txema’s mouth was dry. He wanted a drink. Why would I go to Venezuela? I’ve got a job to do.
I don’t say you should. I’m just here to warn you not to overreact. Mikel’s calm was harrowing. I think Itxua is acting alone.
What do you mean?
He may still be in touch with them but he doesn’t represent the organisation.
What makes you say that?
Mikel drew on his cigarette. The smoke floated out of his mouth as he talked.
He turned up in a clapped-out motor driven by an old man. No one’s behind him. If they were, he’d have a decent car and a young chauffeur making his way up the ranks. You know that.
Txema felt an urge to yield to his old friend, to break down, to hold him and help him. They had been through so much together. Only Mikel knew him. But this was precisely what terrified him. He looked longingly at him. Even as a vagrant, he was an impressive man.
He wants to blackmail you, Txema, but I don’t think he could find anyone to kill you afterwards. Maybe he could but my point is that you shouldn’t run scared. Mikel put his extinguished butt into the pocket of his jeans. He had me in a state, he said, shaking his head. In the old days I would have found myself a weapon and shot him before he shot me. One last action, I would have told myself, to keep the peace. Then I’ll be able to live a simple life. But it doesn’t work, does it?
Txema could not answer. Mikel was a charismatic leader gone wrong. He was mad and dangerous. This is what he would tell Lorea when he gave her his Browning. His heart was beating so hard that he could feel the pulse in his throat.
I have to go, Mikel. We’ll talk later. After the games.
