Complete Short Stories (10 page)

Don Pedro was now coming to the part of the story that made painful telling. Tears started to his eyes and he had difficulty in controlling his voice. But he continued: ‘After these routine arrests, others followed of a different sort altogether. Bernat Martí, a schoolfellow of mine, who kept a café and butcher’s shop near the Church and was a great
wag, was arrested late one night by the two gunmen, despite the frantic cries of his daughter, a deaf-mute, and carried off in Don Pablo’s car. He was shot in the back while trying to escape. “A dangerous Red,” Don Pablo subsequently reported to the military officer at the Port. But if Bernat was a Red, then I am a negro. The truth was that on St Anthony’s Day, when we have a bonfire and the beasts
and cars are blessed by the priest, it is the custom in our village to make
copeos
– that is to say scurrilous rhymes to the accompaniment of an ancient jig. And on St Anthony’s Day, two years before this, Bernat had rhymed about the indecent haste with which Doña Binilde had rushed to the Church with Don Pablo. When I heard the news of his death, I went at once to my cousin Amador, a good fellow
but impulsive. I said to him: “The shameless wretches have murdered Bernat. Take my advice, go off at once to stay with your brother-in-law, the coastguard Lieutenant, at the other end of the island.”

‘“Why should I go? I am no Red.”

‘“Because you went to the trouble of indirectly warning Doña Binilde, before she married, of the profligate record of Don Pablo which you had discovered during
your recent visit to the Continent.”

‘“Ka! I am not afraid of the man. If you suspect him of framing Bernat, why do you not clear out yourself?” But I could not convince Amador, and two nights later the gunmen took him off in Don Pablo’s car as he was returning from a game of cards at the café. He tried to escape, they reported afterwards, and fell into the ravine, breaking his neck.’

I asked:
‘Well, Don Pedro, and why did you not clear out?’

‘For the same reason that my cousin Amador did not: for pride. My reason told me “go”; my pride said “stay”. I stayed. So they picked me up the very next night, just before dawn, while I was coming home from Amador’s father’s house, where I had sat with the family to condole with them, as the custom is. They slowed down the car and shouted: “Jump
in, we are going your way.” But while the younger drove, the elder kept me covered with his pistol from the back seat. “I have a warrant for your arrest,” he remarked casually.

‘“It would interest me much to see that,” said I. “Before you take me to prison, please have the goodness to conduct me to my house. There I can read the document by a better light than the moon, and also collect bedding,
clothing and food. You understand that I must let my wife know what has become of me and give her instructions about managing my affairs if I should happen to be away for a long time.”

‘“No, no, we are in a hurry and the New Road would cut our tyres to pieces. You can read the warrant at the prison guard-house. You are a dangerous Red and supported Socialists in their candidature…”

‘“And twice
defeated Don Pablo at the tribunal,” I interrupted.

‘“Not another word,” said the elder gunman, “or I shall use the butt first, and then the barrel.”

‘So I kept quiet and thought only of escape. As we passed the Mayor’s house, where the car had to slow down to turn an awkward corner, I took a chance. I knew that they would not dare to shoot me in the middle of the village. I slipped off my heavy
signet ring and flung it at his bedroom window; by luck my action was not noticed, because the elder gunman at that moment was leaning forward and muttering instructions into his companion’s ear. And my aim was good; as usually happens when one is in danger, with no time to reason or calculate. The shutters were open, and the windows too, because it was a very hot night, and my ring flew straight
in and rang on the wash basin. The Mayor leaped up with a start, lighted a candle and rushed to the other window. He recognized Don Pablo’s car by its make and the beat of its engine as it disappeared down the road to the port; it was a German Opel, nearly worn out. Then he searched the floor and found my ring.

‘“Bless my soul!” he cried. “A P. and an S. This is Pedro of Ca’n Samper’s signet
ring. The assassins have taken him for a ride.”

‘His wife, now wide awake, though at first she had grumbled at his making such a disturbance when she wanted to sleep, sat up in bed and
said: “Man, there is no time to lose. Don’t stand there gaping and saying: ‘He is taken for a ride.’ Hurry into your trousers, never mind your shoes; and unlock the garage, take the car and go after them.”

‘“I
am unarmed,” the poor man bleated.

‘“You are a great coward. If I could drive I should go myself. Pedro is a good man, besides being your maternal cousin and the godfather of your eldest son. Have you no shame? You have nothing to fear. Drive fast, until you catch them up – yours is the better vehicle – and keep close behind them to make sure that Pedro reaches the prison safely. They will not
dare to do anything with witnesses about and will hold their fire until they reach the desolate stretch of road between the
mirador
and the Moorish Tower. For the Virgin’s sake, get busy!”

‘“Alas, woman,” he said, getting into his trousers, “there is not a drop of gasolene in the tank, and it would take me more than five minutes to rouse a neighbour and fill up.”

‘“In the name of God, have you
no sense? Take Tomeu’s motorcycle – it is in our garage. You can ride a motor-cycle. And if I hear tomorrow that Pedro is dead, I swear to you by all the Saints and Blessed Ones that I will be your woman no longer. You can sleep in the kitchen with the cats.” In Majorca, it is the women who command in the home, just as Solomon prophesied.

‘Meanwhile, Don Roberto, you can imagine that I was far
from comfortable with the pistol barrel between my shoulders and the car bumping and rattling along the road. We continued to the Port and then turned around the mountain-spur by the coast road past your house, and reached Ca’n Bi; then there were no more houses for some kilometres. But I could not see what I hoped to see across the valley as we turned the corner, namely the headlights of the Mayor’s
car coming in pursuit. So I addressed the elder gunman: “Friend, here we are in a conveniently desolate place. Before you kill me, will you allow me to address a few words to an old acquaintance of mine?”

‘“Where is he?”

‘“Far enough from here.”

‘“What do you mean? Do you want to telephone?”

‘“I only want a word or two with my patron saint, St Peter.”

‘“He is dead,” sneered the younger man.
“You will not get through.”

‘“Shot while resisting arrest?” I asked, mimicking his Aragonese accent.

‘The elder gunman laughed. “This is a courageous peasant. I am sorry that we have to cancel his account. Very well, Master, we will stop here and you can kneel in peace on the
mirador
yonder and put your call through while I smoke a cigarette. Though, upon my word, I cannot make out why you should
take the trouble to telephone one whom you will be confronting in person the moment I throw away my cigarette butt.” They
stopped the car and we got out, and walked to where we are now sitting.

‘This is country that I know very well, by day and by night. When I was young I bought myself out of military service with the money I made by smuggling here. I used to hump forty kilos’ weight of tobacco
up from the beach below us, by way of the cliff track, and take it across the road past the Moorish Tower and away over the mountains. My hope was that perhaps I could break away from my captors and escape down the cliff where, being ignorant of the footholds and handholds they would be unable to follow me. But they knew their trade and kept me covered with both pistols; unfortunately, too, the
moon was very bright and the first signs of dawn were already showing beyond the headland. I tried bribery, but could not interest them. The younger gunman said: “If we took you back alive you would certainly inform the Mayor, or the priest, and claim his protection and we should lose not only the money but also the confidence of Don Pablo.”

‘At this I suddenly solved a problem that had been
troubling me for a long time. I cried out: “Chests full of gold ! Why did I not think of it earlier? You are a pair of Bayo’s deserters, and you have hoodwinked the District Party-leader and Don Pablo and everyone else into accepting you as Falangist incorruptibles. Well now, that is very funny and I must laugh, even if it is the last joke that I am ever confronted with.”

‘“It is very funny,
very funny indeed,” agreed the elder. “My companion and I took the Falangist badges off a couple of young gentlemen whom we sandbagged in Barcelona during General Goded’s visit, and kept them in our pockets in case of need. But get on with your prayer, without unseemly laughter, because the dawn, of which you will not see the corresponding sunrise, is nearly here.”

‘I was trembling like a valley
poplar in the sea-breeze, yet would not admit to myself that my last five minutes had come. There was still hope of rescue; for, as I say, I know this region well, and all that normally happens here, day and night. So I advanced alone to the
mirador
and made my genuflexion to the East, as if in Church, and then settled down to pray with my head on the bench where you were seated just now. I prayed
in a low, clear voice so that the gunmen should hear every word. My brain was working with great clarity, though my body was shaken with spasms.

‘“Most blessed and illustrious Saint Peter,” I prayed, “you who jangle at your belt the great keys of Heaven, the silver and the gold! Most merciful and humane Saint, once the chief of sinners – your colleague Paul alone excepted – insomuch as you cursed
and swore from first cockcrow to second cockcrow, denying our Saviour Jesus Christ. Deign to listen to one who is neither a great saint nor a great sinner, but a villager of villagers who calls upon you in his extreme hour of necessity. Permit me respectfully to remind your Holiness that your servant has a peculiar lien upon your care. He is called by your name; he was born upon the very day
which you share with your colleague St Paul; he was baptized in the Parish Church of which you are patron; and for the last ten years, as the senior Pedro in the village has been your
Obrero
– he has been charged with the organization of your annual fiesta, when we glorify your name with a religious service, a candled procession, and with dances, fireworks, a football match and agreeable diversions
for the children in the Plaza.”

‘“Eloquent, is he not?” interrupted the younger gunman, tossing a pebble at me. “He prays like a bishop’s bastard.”

‘“Leave him alone,” said the elder. “This is as good as the graveyard scene in
Don Juan Tenorio.
”

‘“Peter, Peter!” I continued. “Magnanimous Apostle, who alone of the Twelve had the guts of a man and dared draw a sword in defence of your innocent
Master, when the gangsters came to arrest him a little before dawn on Holy Friday. Glorious Saint, whose name signified ‘The Rock,’ upon you I build my hopes, and call upon you with all my heart and soul. It is for no favour at the Celestial Gates that I am pleading: I ask for immediate help. I conjure you, beloved Patron, by the blue waters of the Galilean Lake, and the blue waters that surround
our island, until the other day called ‘The Island of Calm’; I conjure you, Saint, by the nets that you spread from the boat of Zebedee, your father, and by the nets that we spread from our boats at the Port for
salmonete
and the tunny; I conjure you by the silver coin which you found in the fish’s mouth, and by the silver coins which I yearly pay towards the upkeep of your Church and the glory
of your name – Peter, my Peter, come, be present, appear ! Help, Peter, help!” These last words I shouted with such passion that they could be heard a kilometre away.

‘“Silence, man!” exclaimed the elder gunman, flinging away his cigarette butt. “Come, Miguel, over the cliff with him.”

‘But I pointed with my finger: “Lo! Behold!” I cried.

‘They looked, and gaped with astonishment, and the younger
gunman whimpered like a dog: “Alas! See who comes! You should never have allowed him to pray with such force.” Both stood irresolute, and in the silence that ensued I heard the distant crowing of a cock from Ca’n Bi, and the distant
pam-pam-pam
of a fishing boat as it chugged towards the Port with the night’s catch. I closed my eyes again, and waited.

‘“Hand over those pistols,” cried St Peter,
waving his bundle of fishing-rods menacingly. He stood nearly two metres high and the keys clanked loudly at his belt as he sprang towards us through the rosemary and mastic, his beard blowing wildly in the dawn breeze. They gave up their pistols like little boys caught in an act of naughtiness. He tossed one over the cliff in a high arc and handed the other to me. “Accompany me back to your car,
rogues,” he said, “lest I cast the pair of you where I cast that pistol!”

‘They stumbled back, the Saint not saying a word but flogging them at
intervals with his rods while I kept them covered with the pistol. He was red with wrath. When we reached the road there was the Mayor, barefooted but with the motor-cycle, waiting by Don Pablo’s car, and we were three to one. So the Mayor left the motorcycle
on this side of the wall, and climbed into the car, and drove us straight to the District Barracks, where he demanded to see the Commanding Officer at once. From that moment everything went very well indeed. The Commandant knew the Saint well, and knew the Mayor by name and reputation, and had once bought a cob from me which fortunately had proved as sound and sweet-tempered as I had guaranteed
it to be. When the gunmen had made a full confession and had been put into the guardroom, the Saint said to the Commandant: “Don Pablo of Ca’n Sampol, when he hears of this, will laugh with one side of his face only.”

‘Believe it or not, that was precisely what happened. When the Civil Guards came later in the day to arrest him, he suffered a sort of paralytic stroke, which screwed up the left
half of his face in a grin which has not since left him. After he had spent some months in the Grand Hotel, waiting his turn, he was sentenced to death for conspiracy against the life of an innocent man, but by the influence of Doña Binilde’s relations, one of whom was the Vicar-general of Palma, the sentence was commuted to life-imprisonment, and they let him out after three years.
Está en su
casa.
And I am in mine. But ever since then I have had recurrent nightmares of the
mirador,
and have felt myself tossed in a high arc over the cliff by a furious Saint whom I suppose, by the portfolio of documents at his side, to be St Paul. It comes upon me just before dawn and afterwards I cannot sleep a wink.’