The Scent of Lemon Leaves

by Clara Sanchez

  “Look,” I said, opening up the album. “Look at this man.”

  It was Sebastian. He was wearing a suit, which made the identification easier. A dark suit, receding hairline, eyes also dark.

  She looked at him as she emerged from her private ruminations.

  “Could he be the Black Angel?” I asked.

  “Could be. He smokes in the same way.”

  I hesitated over revealing to Sandra who the Black Angel was, because the more she knew the worse it would be for her. She’d look at him differently, or might let his real name escape her lips, and she wouldn’t talk about him with the healthy ring of ignorance. Sandra was a candid, sincere girl with nothing to hide, and they’d immediately read what she knew in her eyes. Then again, I didn’t feel capable of manipulating her to such an extreme. She had the right to know about the vipers’ nest she’d fallen into. She’d let me participate in a beautiful event of her life and I mustn’t fall so low as to betray her, to stand by and watch her plummeting down without having warned her that the abyss was waiting for her only ten metres away.

  “You have to decide,” I told her. “You have to tell me if you want me to tell you who this individual is. Bear in mind that every piece of information you acquire will take you one step closer to hell.”

  5

  Monsters Also Fall in Love

  Sandra

  It was hard to recognize them from the photos Julián showed me. Physically speaking, they were other people now. Some still had features they couldn’t hide, like the exceptional height of Fred and Aribert Heim, the Butcher of Mauthausen, who now had only a couple of white hairs left on his head. He walked bent over as if he couldn’t hold up his enormous skeleton. I recalled having seen him only once at the Norwegians’ house, at Karin’s birthday party, and he seemed to be a friendly man. He held out his hand and flashed me a smile. The scars crossing Otto Wagner’s face and his blue eyes had become less noticeable, were fading away. And the Black Angel, who was apparently called Sebastian Bernhardt, had no outstanding features, was quite ordinary-looking though he did dye the little bit of hair he had left on both sides of his head.

  Julián assumed that the man I’d previously thought of as the Black Angel had died in Germany, when in fact he’d returned to this village, where he’d previously been living from 1940 until some time in the Fifties. He and his family possessed a villa presented to him by Franco in recognition of his services, which had been nothing more nor less than convincing Hitler to give his support to Franco. I swore to myself that when I got back to my normal life I’d read more about these things. How could someone that old still keep going? His wife, Helen by name, had probably died and his children would have retired by now. Sebastian had always enjoyed the reputation of being unpretentious and agreeable and he continued to be so. I can vouch for that. Julián immediately suspected that this mansion of Sebastian’s was what was now known as Villa Sol. He’d probably sold it to the Norwegians and retired to a more comfortable apartment. There was a sort of background feeling of comfort at Villa Sol, most likely left by Helen and her children. I didn’t understand how somebody who looked as reasonable as Sebastian did, someone so understanding, could be one of them, or how he wasn’t revolted by the things they’d done. I wondered what could have gone on in the mind of somebody in order for that person never ever to feel remorse about anything. Basically, he was the only one of the whole tribe who had a human gaze. The rest of them were fakers. Had any of them killed again after the War, or had they had their fill for ever? Would any one of them be capable of killing on his or her own account, or did they need to be part of an organization?

  I didn’t know any of these things before and would never have known them if it hadn’t occurred to me to come and spend a few days by the sea. Mauthausen. Auschwitz. How many times had I heard these names? But then they were light years away and belonged in the realms of Orion at the very least, in a past that wasn’t mine. Now I had them a metre in front of my face, and sometimes just a few centimetres away.

  Aribert Heim had held out his hand to me and, when I discovered what those hands had done, I felt marked and that there was no way I could walk out now, although there was always the possibility that this was merely a case of mistaken identity, because all old people look alike. If only it wasn’t true that I’d shaken hands with the Butcher. Just thinking about it made me feel sick. For the moment, there was nothing but the Gold Cross that could confirm Fred’s identity. All the rest was conjecture.

  Could I put on an act, Julián had asked me. Could you dissemble to the point that it would never enter their heads that you might be interested in that old story of Nazis and the Holocaust? Actually, they never talked about politics in front of me. Nothing that could sound important was ever mentioned, although sometimes they let slip a few words in German, which you didn’t have to know in order to twig that they were a departure from the general tone. I was sure that such precautions were not because of me, but because they were used to taking them, which is why they’d slipped through Julián’s hands over and over again. If I hadn’t known they were Nazis, they would have continued to be normal people for me. But now, everything, whatever it was, had a meaning. Those marked features of Fred’s were Aryan features, and Alice’s strange youthfulness came from God knows where. Maybe it was simply that she trusted in her genetic superiority. We decided that we’d never mention their real names as a precaution against their slipping out when I was talking with them.

  Julián

  As before, Sandra arrived at the lighthouse on her motorbike, parked it, and came into the ice-cream parlour. I saw her through the window. We always sat at a table from which you could see the cars coming and people entering and leaving the place. It was one way of avoiding unpleasant surprises. When she sat down at the table, she sighed and put her helmet down beside her. I thought she didn’t look well and was possibly too thin for a pregnant woman, but it was just a passing impression and not a conscious assessment. More than an idea it was an image. The present was escaping from me too fast, without giving me time to savour it. Birds flew very fast, air was lost before it was felt, faces changed instantly, smells disappeared, and it scarcely mattered. My whole life was in the past. I had the sense that I’d been left in this world after Raquel died to atone for some wrongdoing, to suffer a little more, and that my having survived her made no sense. Sandra functioned in the dimension of the present and I in the past, even though we could see each other and talk.

  When I confessed to Sandra that I’d bought the dog deliberately and for morbid reasons, without calculating the risks, when I confessed that I’d used her to make the Norwegians uneasy, she would never look me in the face again and would very rightly consider that I was as wretched as they were. But I had to say it. I couldn’t die with this on my conscience.

  I thought about writing her a letter and giving it to her when we said goodbye at the lighthouse, but I immediately thought it would be an act of cowardice not to say it to her face, so I looked her in the eye.

  “I’ve got to tell you something. I’m not asking for forgiveness, I don’t want anything. That’s life, one despicable thing after another. You shouldn’t have anything to do with somebody like me.”

  Sandra didn’t blink. Sometimes her gaze was so fixed it was uncomfortable. It was as if she’d forgotten to change its direction.

  “It’s about the dog, the puppy you gave to Karin.”

  “Poor Bolita,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about him too. I shouldn’t have given him to the Eel. I shouldn’t have washed my hands of him. I feel really bad about it. I wonder what they’ve done with him.”

  “Remember how surprised you were by Karin’s reaction? Such a beautiful dog, such a big house. It’s impossible to understand how she could reject it, isn’t it?”

  “I felt really bad about it, as you know. It was a tremendous slap in the face. Karin’s never mentioned it again or said sorry or offered any explanation. I feel like I�
�ve done something terrible without knowing what, but now the only thing I’m sorry about is what would have happened to the dog.”

  In a few seconds, I was going to rip from Sandra a little bit of her good heart. From now on she’d be minus another scrap of her good heart. And the fewer the good hearts abroad in the world the worse it would be for everybody.

  “It was my fault. Totally and absolutely my fault,” I said, almost closing my eyes so I didn’t have to see her. “Karin hates this breed of dog, because they used them to terrorize the prisoners in the concentration camps where they’d been sent. I’m not going to tell you any more. They trained them for that and their presence reminds her of who she was and who she continues to be. Basically, people don’t change, don’t improve. They only get old. Sad to say, it’s as easy to get worse as it is to get better. And I’ve just realized that I, too, am worse than I believed.”

  Sandra was disconcerted. She’d probably never imagined I’d be capable of such a dirty trick, of putting her in danger or at least in a difficult situation. Her expression had changed, had turned a little sad, as if she was very tired.

  “If I respect you, appreciate you and think you’re marvellous, and yet am capable of doing such a thing, imagine how far they might go.”

  I couldn’t bear Sandra’s not saying anything. When Raquel got really angry with me, she didn’t speak. Rage sewed her lips together. At first I used to get desperate, trying to bring her back to me, to make her look at me, to accept me again, which only made things worse, until I understood that it was better to wait and not force matters. I used to go into another room, or to have a walk, taking a distance, trusting that Nature would do her work. And now I was thinking of doing the same, although Sandra wasn’t Raquel and neither had I ever done such a rotten thing to Raquel as I’d done to Sandra.

  I called the waitress over, paid and stood up. Sandra remained there looking dejected. I left a two-euro tip on the saucer and the waitress looked at me with infinite contempt. Something must have happened to her at Sandra’s age with someone of my age, something worse than what I’d done to Sandra.

  Sandra

  I’d almost succeeded in forgetting about Karin’s party when Julián made his confession about the dog. I felt so let down and betrayed that I acted like an idiot. At the time, I didn’t see that if he’d warned me about what he was thinking of doing, I would have given myself away in front of everyone when Karin rejected Bolita. Of course I wouldn’t have reacted so naturally. Julián had got carried away by his zeal in wanting them to feel that their cover had been blown and that they couldn’t keep on living like that without a care in the world. He could have chosen not to be sincere with me, and then I would never have had a clue. If it was only because of his having exposed himself to the shame of confessing, I wanted to give Julián my vote of confidence. It also occurred to me that Julián had offered me this explanation about the dog so I’d pull out of this situation for once and for all. I didn’t believe he was faking when he was fretting about my safety, and when he kept insisting I should leave. Maybe he’d had the idea about the dog in order to force my retreat, which wasn’t part of my plans any more. I wanted to do something important.

  Since I didn’t know to make a good job of the small things in life, I’d have to do something outstanding so I wouldn’t go on feeling I was such a complete good-for-nothing. I’d never believed this stuff about opportunities that life places in your way because I’d never played this opportunities game, and because, in order to find them, first you have to go looking for them, and what opportunities would be suitable for me? I never knew until I landed in the Norwegians’ house, until I met Julián and began to enter into this terrifying story that everyone’s heard of, and yet there were very few people left who’d actually lived through it. I felt caught between victims and executioners, between the Devil and the deep blue sea. Then, lo and behold, life ends up thrusting an opportunity right in front of my nose, the chance to help Julián unmask this scum. Any woman can be a mother, but I didn’t want my son to have any old mother. I wasn’t a little girl any more, I’d never go back to being that, and life was giving me an opportunity. This was no time to be running away.

  I’d also forgotten about the Eel and my promise to go out with him. It was something I’d put out of my mind as best I could by thinking about what name to give my son now I knew the baby was a boy. I wasn’t sure whether I should call him after someone in the family, or after Santi, his father, or whether to give him a completely new name not associated with anyone. I was also thinking about how to decorate his room, without knowing which house the room would be in. I’d stick a starry sky on the ceiling, which would shine when the light was turned off so he could see it when he opened his eyes. If only you could do everything just by thinking about it. By thinking, then, I’d have enough money to set up a shop selling clothes or costume jewellery and I’d contract an assistant so I wouldn’t feel tied down. By thinking, I’d fall in love to the point of swooning, like in Karin’s novels and, by thinking, Fred and Karin would be two normal old people of the kind I wouldn’t have to suspect or fear in the least. But what you think is going to happen rarely does happen.

  On Monday, when we got back to Villa Sol from Karin’s gym, we found Martín there chatting with Fred and, from the expression on his face when he saw me, it looked as if he was waiting for me. On the kitchen bench there was a small packet, which he must have brought. Karin picked it up at once while Martín handed me a piece of paper with a malicious air about him.

  Handwriting with rounded, absolutely feminine letters informed me that he’d be coming to pick me up at seven. It was signed “Alberto”. It was the Eel.

  “Have you read the note?” I asked Martín. His head was even more close-shaven now and on his cranium he was sporting a tattoo of a sphere.

  “I wrote it myself,” he replied, enjoying the fact that he’d thrown me off balance.

  “And why?”

  “Alberto asked me to do it. He had a little matter to deal with and didn’t have time.”

  “Well, you’ve got very pretty handwriting.”

  “Really?” he said, rubbing his hand over the tattoo.

  I nodded.

  “Sometimes I write poems, lyrics for songs. I want to start up a group, you know what I mean?”

  “You’ve certainly got something in you. That’s clear.”

  “Listen,” he said, moving so close to me that he was brushing against me, “Alberto’s a good guy, but sometimes he loses the plot. Don’t go getting into an argument with him, okay?”

  “Run along, away with you,” I said, pushing him away with my fingers, “and, when you get your group together, don’t wear that cologne.”

  He took me by the arm, worried.

  “Don’t you get it into your head to talk to him like that. He doesn’t understand these things. I like you, little girl.”

  Little girl? Where did this cretin crawl out from? He said little girl, has the handwriting of a nun, but what he’s done to his head is really scary. I pushed him right away from me with my hand and went upstairs wondering what I could wear that wouldn’t make the Eel lose the plot.

  By the time I came down, Fred and Karin had been informed about my date. Martín had left. They looked at me all smiles. They relished anything to do with love. I’m sure they liked the idea of me getting together with someone from the Brotherhood. It would be the ideal way for them to get me under their control, or not to have to do anything to keep me under control. In such circumstances they could certainly name me heiress to all their worldly goods.

  I’d put on my other pair of jeans, the boots and a white blouse with embroidery at the neck and cuffs that Karin had given me. It was something I wasn’t going to be wearing on any other occasion and I was planning to throw it away as soon as all this was over, but now it would serve my purposes of getting a bit of an idea of how things looked from the Brotherhood’s perspective. I picked up the anorak and draped it
over my arm.

  “They’re very good boys,” they said, taking the words from each other’s mouths.

  “Do you want some perfume?” Karin asked.

  Fortunately the Eel tooted the horn from the other side of the gate just then and I could dash out. I was grateful he hadn’t come to get me at the door.

  “Hello,” he said when I got in the car and he headed off towards the main road.

  I didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say until I heard a mixture of whimpering and yapping from the back seat. I couldn’t believe it. It was Bolita in the gift basket. I leant back towards him.

  “You little wretch,” I exclaimed. “You’ve got so fat!”

  “Because I look after him well,” the Eel said.

  “I would never have imagined it. I thought that…”

  “That I’d taken him to the dog pound and got him put down? That I’d killed him with my own bare hands? That I’d eaten him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, playing with the pup. “Having a puppy and looking after it doesn’t suit you.”

  “Yeah, it suits me to have a great big ferocious dog to scare the shit out of people.”

  “Precisely,” I said, disregarding Martín’s advice.

  Now I was getting a closer look at him. He hadn’t taken any particular pains over getting dressed up to be with me, so it didn’t seem very logical to think that he wanted to get off with me, or it might also be that he thought I didn’t deserve anything better. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt that looked as if he’d been wearing it for a while, grey trousers that didn’t look recently ironed, and he’d thrown a dark-blue everyday jacket on the seat next to Bolita. He hadn’t even tried to run his fingers through his hair, which was tousled by the wind. He certainly had no intention of trying to impress me. He had delicate features and light-brown to blondish hair, a receding hairline, wasn’t ugly and was about thirty-five.