Winter in Madrid

by C. J. Sansom

  He told the priest what Aranda had said. ‘He says he’s going to report you to Father Jaime.’

  ‘He is a hard man.’ Father Eduardo shrugged.

  Bernie turned to go. ‘Wait,’ the priest said. He was still looking out of the window. ‘He is going back inside his hut.’ He turned to Bernie. ‘Listen, I know him, he will go and warm himself at the stove now. It is at the back of his hut. Fill the bucket again and go quickly, he won’t see you.’

  Bernie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I saw your friend desperate for water and I wanted to help. That is all.’

  ‘Then leave him in peace. Don’t trouble his last hours for the million to one chance he’ll repent.’

  The priest did not reply. Bernie refilled the bucket and left the hut without another word. His heart pounded as he crossed the yard. He and the priest were both mad. If Aranda saw he’d been disobeyed he’d go berserk.

  He reached the hut safely, shutting the door behind him. He went up to Vicente’s bed. ‘Water, amigo,’ he said. ‘Courtesy of the church.’

  THE PRIEST came again that afternoon. Most of the men who were fit, tired of being cooped up, had gone outside and were playing a desultory game of football in the yard. Vicente was delirious, he seemed to imagine himself back in his office in Madrid, and kept muttering to someone to bring him a file and open the window, he was too hot. He was covered in sweat although the hut was freezing cold. Bernie sat beside him, wiping his face now and then with a corner of the sheet. On the bed opposite Establo lay smoking, watching them. He seldom went outside now.

  Bernie heard a rustle at his elbow and turned. Father Eduardo was there; he must have come in quietly.

  ‘He’s in a dream, father,’ Bernie whispered. ‘Leave him, he’s far away from this place.’

  The priest put a box on the bed, a box of oils Bernie supposed. His heart thumped; the moment had come. Father Eduardo leaned over and touched Vicente’s brow. The lawyer grimaced and flinched away, then slowly opened his eyes. He took a deep rattling breath.

  ‘Mierda. You again.’

  Father Eduardo took a deep breath. ‘I think your hour is close. You have been slipping into dreams and next time you may not return. Even now, Señor Vicente, God will receive you into eternal life.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Bernie said.

  Vicente gave a ghastly rictus of a smile, exposing pale gums. ‘Don’t worry, compadre. Give me some water.’

  Bernie helped Vicente to drink. He took long slow sips, his eyes never leaving the priest, then lay back gasping.

  ‘Please.’ There was a pleading note in Father Eduardo’s voice. ‘You have a chance of eternal life. Don’t throw it away.’

  Vicente began to make a gurgling noise in his throat. The priest spoke again.

  ‘If you do not take this last chance, you must go to Hell. That is what is written.’

  Vicente’s throat was working, he gurgled and spluttered. Bernie knew what he was trying to do. The priest leaned forward and Vicente took a deep breath but the phlegm he had been working slipped down his throat. He coughed, then started choking, gasping frantically for breath. He sat up, his face red, heaving for air. Bernie reached over and slapped him on the back. Vicente’s eyes bulged as he gagged and retched. Then a spasm ran through his wasted body and he fell back on the pallet. A long gurgling sigh came from his throat, a sound of terrible weariness. Bernie saw the expression leach out of his eyes. He was dead. The priest sank to his knees and began to pray.

  Bernie sat on the bed. His legs were shaking. After a minute Father Eduardo rose and crossed himself. Bernie looked at him coldly.

  ‘He was trying to spit at you, father, did you realize?’

  The priest shook his head.

  ‘You threatened him with Hell and he tried to spit at you and choked on it. You gave him his death.’

  The priest looked at Vicente’s body then shook his head and turned away, walking down the hut. Bernie shouted after him.

  ‘Don’t worry, father, he’s not in Hell. He’s out of it!’

  VICENTE WAS buried the next day. As he had not received the last rites there could be no church ceremony. Vicente would have been pleased. Bernie trudged through the snow behind the digging detail that carried the body, sewn into an old sheet, to the hillside where the graves were. He watched as it was lowered into a shallow grave that had been dug that morning. ‘Adíos, compadre,’ he muttered quietly. He felt very alone.

  The guard accompanying them crossed himself and signalled with his rifle for Bernie to return to the camp. The digging detail began filling in the grave, struggling with the frozen earth. It began to snow again, white heavy flakes. Bernie thought, Father Eduardo will be thinking you’re in the eternal fire, but really you’re going to be encased in ice. The joke would have amused Vicente.

  THAT AFTERNOON Bernie was leaning against the wall of the hut, smoking a cigarette one of the digging party had given him out of kindness, when Pablo came up to him. He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ve been detailed to speak to you, on behalf of the party cell,’ he said.

  Because you were my friend, Bernie thought, to show me Establo’s brought everyone into line.

  ‘You have been found guilty of incorrigible bourgeois individualism and resistance to authority,’ Pablo said woodenly. ‘You are expelled from the party, and warned if you make any attempts to sabotage our cell, measures will be taken.’ Bernie knew what that meant; a knife thrust in the dark; it had happened before among the prisoners.

  ‘I’m a loyal Communist and I always have been,’ he said. ‘I don’t accept Establo’s authority to lead us. One day I shall take my case to the Central Committee.’

  Pablo lowered his voice. ‘Why do you make trouble? Why be so obstinate? You are obstinate, Bernardo. People say you only became friends with the lawyer to annoy us.’

  Bernie smiled bitterly. ‘Vicente was an honest man. I admired him.’

  ‘What was the point of making all that trouble with the priest? These things cause trouble. There’s no point arguing with the priests. Establo’s right, it’s just bourgeois individualism.’

  ‘Then what do we do? How do we resist?’

  ‘We keep strong, united. One day fascism will fall.’ Pablo winced and scratched at his wrist. Perhaps he had scabies – that was a risk if you were round Establo too much.

  ‘One thing more, Establo wants you out of the hut. He wants you to apply for a transfer, say being in the hut is hard after your friend’s death.’

  Bernie shrugged. ‘They may not let me move.’

  ‘Establo said you must.’

  ‘I’ll ask, comrade.’ Bernie put a bitter emphasis on the last word.

  Pablo turned away. Bernie watched him go. And if I don’t get a transfer, he thought, which I probably won’t, Establo will say I’m making more trouble by staying. He’s got it all worked out. He looked through the wire at the hill where Vicente was buried, a brown slash in the snow. He thought he wouldn’t mind joining him under the earth. Then he set his lips. While he lived he would fight. That was what a real Communist did.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THERE WAS AN uneasy atmosphere round the dinner table. Sandy and Barbara were both smoking constantly, lighting up between courses. Sandy was unusually quiet, withdrawing into little silences, while Barbara’s attempts at conversation seemed nervous and brittle, and once or twice she looked at Sandy strangely. They seemed to Harry to be distant from each other, oddly disconnected. The atmosphere made Harry feel nervous, uneasy. He couldn’t stop looking at Sandy’s preoccupied, slightly surly face and thinking, what happened to Gomez? What have you done to him?

  The spies knew he had been invited for dinner at Sandy’s again and he had had an interview with Hillgarth that afternoon. He hadn’t seen him for over a week. The captain’s office was at the rear of the embassy, an area Harry had never visited. A business-like female secretary led him into a large room wit
h high coved ceilings. Framed photographs of battleships lined the walls; on a shelf, beside Whitaker’s Almanac and Jane’s Fighting Ships, were bound copies of Hillgarth’s novels. Harry remembered one or two titles he had seen Sandy reading at school: The Princess and the Perjurer, The War Maker.

  Hillgarth sat behind a big oak desk. His face wore a heavy, frowning expression; there was anger in the large expressive eyes although his tone was quiet. ‘We’re in trouble with Maestre,’ he began. ‘He’s bloody furious. He and some of his Monarchist chums were spying at that bloody mine and Gomez was working for them. It’s a pity you were the one who gave his man away. Maestre wasn’t too pleased with you anyway for leaving his daughter in the lurch. It’s the end of their operation.’

  ‘Can I ask what’s happened to Gomez, sir? Is he—’

  ‘Maestre doesn’t know. But he doesn’t expect to see him again. Gomez worked for him for years.’

  ‘I see.’ Harry felt his stomach sink.

  ‘At least Forsyth doesn’t seem to be on to you.’ Hillgarth stared at him. ‘So keep stringing him along, agree to invest, and tell me about these reports they talked about when you get them. It’s them I want to see.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sir Sam’s lobbying in London. They may pull the plug on this operation. If they do, or if anything goes wrong, I’ve got a contingency plan for Forsyth.’ He paused. ‘We’ll try to recruit him. We can’t offer him what he’s hoping to make from that mine, but we could maybe bring other pressures to bear. He’s still estranged from his family?’

  ‘Completely.’

  Hillgarth grunted. ‘Nothing we can use there, then. Oh well, we’ll have to see.’ He looked at Harry sharply. ‘You look worried. Don’t like the idea of us putting the squeeze on Forsyth? I’d got the impression you despised him.’

  Harry said nothing. Hillgarth went on looking at him. ‘You’re not really cut out for this sort of work, are you, Brett?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Harry said heavily. ‘I just did what I was asked to do. I’m sorry for what happened to Lieutenant Gomez.’

  ‘So you should be. But we need you to carry on doing what you’re doing, for now. Afterwards we’ll send you home. Probably quite soon.’ He gave a half smile. ‘I expect that will be a relief, eh?’

  PILAR BROUGHT IN the main course: a paella, mussels and prawns and anchovies on a bed of rice. She set the dish on the table and withdrew, avoiding everyone’s eye. Barbara scooped portions onto their plates.

  ‘It’s a treat getting fresh fish,’ Sandy said, seeming to come to life at the smell of food. He smiled at Harry. ‘There’s less of it around than ever.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The fishermen get a petrol allowance to run their boats, but the black-market price of petrol’s so astronomical they just sell it on for a huge profit and don’t bother going to sea. That’s what our blockade’s doing, you see.’

  ‘Can’t the government make them use the petrol for fishing?’

  Sandy laughed. ‘No. Even when they do make laws they can’t enforce them. Half the ministers have their noses deep in the trough anyway.’

  ‘How’s this project going that you’re investing in?’ said Barbara. She gave Harry another strange look.

  ‘Well—’

  Sandy interrupted. ‘Slowly. Nothing happening just now.’

  She looked between them for a moment.

  ‘I had a letter from Will yesterday,’ Harry said. ‘He’s enjoying being in the countryside now.’

  ‘His wife’ll be pleased to be away from the raids,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Yes, it’s been too much for her.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Have you heard about Coventry?’

  She took a long drag of her cigarette. Behind her glasses her eyes were tired, little rings around them Harry hadn’t noticed before. ‘Yes. Five hundred killed, the reports said. The city centre flattened.’

  ‘Those reports in Arriba are exaggerated,’ Sandy said. ‘They always make the bombing sound worse than it is – the Germans tell them what to write.’

  ‘It was on the BBC.’

  ‘It’s true all right,’ Harry agreed.

  ‘Coventry’s only fifteen miles from Birmingham,’ Barbara said. ‘Every time I listen to the BBC I’m frightened of hearing about more raids there. I think my mother’s feeling the strain, from her letters.’ She sighed and smiled at Harry sadly. ‘It’s strange when your parents suddenly seem like frightened old people.’

  ‘You should go and visit them,’ Sandy said.

  She looked up at him in surprise.

  ‘Why not? You haven’t been home for years. Christmas is coming up. It’d make a nice surprise for them.’

  Barbara bit her lip. ‘I just – I don’t think it’s the right time,’ she said.

  ‘Why ever not? I could get you a place on a plane.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  Harry looked at Barbara. He wondered why she didn’t want to go. She turned to him. ‘What about you, Harry, will you be getting any Christmas leave?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. They like to keep the translators on tap in case there’s an emergency.’

  ‘I expect you’d like to see your aunt and uncle.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sandy says you’ve got a girlfriend,’ she said with an effort at brightness. ‘What does she do?’

  Harry wished again he hadn’t told Sandy that in the car the day they’d visited the mine. ‘She – she works in the dairy sector.’

  ‘How long have you been seeing her?’

  ‘Not long.’ Harry thought back to the previous evening, which he had spent at the Carabanchel flat. Sofia had revealed, quite unexpectedly, that she had told her family they were going out together. Harry had wondered how they would react. Sofia’s mother and Enrique had welcomed him effusively though Harry guessed they were pleased Sofia had found someone rich, even though he was a foreigner. Paco had seemed more at ease and had spoken to Harry for the first time. He had felt strangely privileged.

  ‘You’ll have to bring her round to dinner,’ Barbara said brightly. ‘Make a foursome.’

  ‘That’s why you’re not going home for Christmas.’ Sandy pointed a finger at Harry. ‘You sly dog.’ He wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Where’s the pepper? Pilar’s forgotten it.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it,’ Barbara said. ‘Excuse me.’

  She left the room. Sandy looked at Harry seriously. ‘Wanted to get rid of her for a minute,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid there’s a problem with the mine.’

  Harry’s heart began thumping. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sebastian’s got cold feet about a foreigner investing. I’m afraid it’s no go.’ He looked downcast.

  ‘That’s a shame.’ So there would be no reports for Hillgarth after all. ‘I’m surprised, I thought it was Otero that was suspicious.’

  Sandy toyed with his crystal wineglass. ‘He’s afraid this supervision committee won’t like the idea of an English investor. They’re putting us – ’ he paused – ‘under pressure.’

  ‘General Maestre’s committee?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve a closer eye on us than we thought. They know about you, we think.’

  Harry wanted to ask about Gomez but he dared not. ‘You’ll still have problems with funding, then?’

  Sandy nodded. ‘The committee are talking about more or less taking the project over. Then bang go our profits. The people on the committee will make a mint of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll make something out of it, I suppose. I’m sorry to let you down.’ He looked at Harry, his brown eyes sad and liquid like a dog’s. How quickly their expression could change.

  ‘It’s all right. Maybe I’m better off out of it. I’m not sure it was my type of thing.’

  ‘Good of you to take it like that. Pity, I wanted to do something for you, for – you know, old times’ sake.’

  The
telephone rang in the hall, making Harry jump. He heard footsteps and Barbara’s voice speaking English. A moment later she returned, her face anxious.

  ‘Harry, the embassy want to speak to you. They say it’s urgent.’ She looked at him with concern. ‘I hope it’s not bad news from home.’

  ‘You gave them our number?’ Sandy looked at him sharply.

  ‘I had to, I’m on call tonight. I have to go in if there’s something needs translating urgently. Excuse me.’

  He stepped out into the hall. A little brasero set under the telephone table warmed his feet, casting a yellow glow over the floor. He picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello. Harry Brett.’

  A cultured female voice answered. ‘Oh, Mr Brett, I’m so glad we were able to reach you. I’ve got a caller holding, a Miss Sofia Roque Casas.’ The woman hesitated. ‘She says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Sofia?’

  ‘She’s holding now. Do you want to take the call?’

  ‘Yes. Please, put her on.’

  There was a click and for a moment Harry thought he had lost the connection, then Sofia came on. It seemed strange, hearing her voice there in Sandy’s hall.

  ‘Harry, Harry is that you?’ There was panic in her voice, normally so composed.

  ‘Yes. Sofia, what is it?’

  ‘It’s Mama. I think she has had another stroke. Enrique’s gone out, I’m alone. Paco is in a terrible state, he saw it. Harry, can you come?’ He heard tears in her voice.

  ‘A stroke?’

  ‘I think so. She is unconscious.’

  ‘I’ll come at once. Where are you?’

  ‘I walked two blocks to find a telephone. I’m sorry, I couldn’t think what else to do. Oh, Harry, she is bad.’

  He thought a moment. ‘OK. Go back to the flat, I’ll get there as soon as I can. When’s Enrique back?’

  ‘Not till late. He has gone out with some friends.’

  ‘Listen, I’m in Vigo district. I’ll try and find a cab and get there as soon as I can. Get back to your mother and Paco.’

  ‘Please hurry, please hurry.’ It was frightening to hear the panic in her voice. ‘I knew you’d come,’ she added quickly, then there was a click as she replaced the receiver.