The Exile (13 page)

‘The pleasure was mine, señor.
Agur
.' The old man set off up towards the village.

‘You've forgotten something.'

The shepherd grinned. ‘
Lo siento.
I nearly walked off with the gentleman's rifle.'

‘Nearly.' Guzmán retrieved the heavy leather case from Mikel Aingeru and watched the old man wander away, leaving an odour of ancient sheepskin behind. He stowed the weapon safely in the car and called Ochoa to join him as he went down the track leading to the
cuartel
.

‘It's not Madrid, is it, sir?'

Guzmán glowered at him. ‘Strangely enough, Corporal, I'd noted that.'

OROITZ 1954, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL

The building was typical
guardia
architecture, an ugly, cheaply constructed blockhouse made of defective concrete bought from dishonest contactors and built by incompetent builders. Most of the builders' efforts seemed to have gone into carving the traditional
Todo por la Patria
over the entrance, and even the lettering of that was skewed. Guzmán could picture the layout inside: a few offices, an armoury and a squad room that stank of sweat, farts and cabbage. By the door, a civil guard was polishing his boots. He looked up as they approached. ‘Want something?'

Good
, Guzmán thought,
it would never do to arrive somewhere and be dealt with courteously. That would just make things boring.
‘We're staying in the village,' he said. ‘We're here to present our documents.'

‘Quite right too.' The trooper held out his hand with blatant disinterest.

Guzmán handed over his papers and watched the man's face change as he read the pass issued by Franco's HQ.

‘
Perdón, mi Comandante.
We had no idea you were coming.
A sus ordenes.
'

Somewhere inside the
cuartel
, a woman screamed. ‘
Qué pasa
?' Guzmán asked, walking briskly towards the entrance.

‘Sargento León is questioning someone, sir. I wouldn't interrupt if I was you.'

Ignoring him, Guzmán went into the building and marched down the dingy corridor, the monotony of its mildewed walls punctuated by khaki doors with peeling paint. The woman cried out again, from a room to their right. Ochoa stood back as Guzmán opened the door.

There were two men inside. One had his back to them, the other was a burly
sargento
, holding a young woman against the far wall, his big hand round her throat. The girl's face was flushed and her blouse was torn at the neck. The men were arguing.

‘Mind your own fucking business, Corporal,' the
sargento
growled. ‘She's a suspect. I'll do what I like with her.'

‘She can't be a suspect,' the corporal protested. ‘She hasn't done anything wrong.'

‘You think so? She'll confess to anything in an hour or two. You know what they say: old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher. Time she found out what women are for.'

Guzmán stepped into the room. ‘
Buenos días.
'

‘Who the fuck are you?' the big
sargento
growled. ‘Throw him out,
Cabo
.'

The corporal looked at Guzmán and saw trouble. ‘Who are you, señor?'

‘Read this.' Guzmán handed the corporal his papers. ‘Out loud.'

‘Stuff it up your arse, I'm busy,' the
sargento
said. Noticing his momentary distraction, the young woman took the opportunity to bite his hand. He cursed, pushing her against the wall, trying without success to pin her arms to her sides. She lashed out with her foot and caught him in the shin. He glared at her. ‘I'll teach you to bite me,
puta
.'

He was a big bastard, Guzmán noticed. Still, so was he.

‘You'd better hear this,' the corporal said.

‘I told you to throw them out.' The
sargento
let go of the girl and she slumped against the wall, her eyes bright, though not with tears. She seemed to be looking for something sharp.

‘I'm questioning this prisoner,' the
sargento
said. ‘And I don't like being interrupted, so piss off, unless you want the same treatment.'

‘What? You're going to feel my tits as well?' Guzmán sneered.

‘Listen to this, Sarge.' The corporal's voice rose in disbelief. ‘“His Excellency, Head of State,
Caudillo
by the Grace of God,
Generalísimo
Don Francisco Franco requests that the holder of this document,
Comandante
Leopoldo Guzmán, of the Special Brigade, be afforded any assistance said officer may request of any public servant whether civil or military. Any order or instruction from said officer may not be countermanded by a commissioned officer below the rank of
coronel
and even then said officer must first communicate with General HQ to obtain approval. Further, be aware that the above mentioned Don Leopoldo Guzmán is authorised to bear firearms at all times.”' The corporal stared at the sergeant. ‘It's signed by Franco himself.'

‘Which means,' Guzmán growled, ‘you two ladies start behaving in a proper manner or I'll take appropriate measures.' He reached into his jacket for a cigarette. ‘But suit yourselves, I've always enjoyed firing squads.'

‘
A sus ordenes, mi Comandante.
' The corporal snapped to attention.

The
sargento
was less impressed. ‘You might be something in Madrid but this is my territory and things are done my way here.'

‘This land doesn't belong to you Spaniards,' the young woman cut in. ‘It's Basque and always has been.'

‘Quiet, bitch.' León drew back his fist.

Guzmán sprang forward, seizing the
sargento
's wrist and twisting his arm to pull him away from the girl. León tried to break free but he was too slow and Guzmán slammed him back against the wall before driving a couple of hard punches into his belly. Gasping for breath, the
sargento
looked up just as Guzmán's head-butt hit him in the face, sending him backwards, scattering piles of papers from the desk as he fell. He lay on the floor, clutching his nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood. ‘Shoot the fucker, Corporal.'

Caught between fear of Guzmán and fear of his
sargento
, the corporal made a half-hearted attempt to draw his pistol. Something clicked behind him and his hand froze before the gun left the holster.

‘I wouldn't do that,' Ochoa said, his pistol aimed at the corporal's head.

The corporal raised his hands. He gave the
sargento
an embarrassed shrug.

‘Useless fuck,' León spluttered.

Guzmán frowned as he looked down at the sergeant. ‘I know you, don't I?'

‘In the war.' León's teeth were red with blood. ‘You were commanding those Moors.'

‘And you were wiping General Torres's arse, I recall,' Guzmán said, ‘with your tongue.'

‘At least I didn't spend my days with a bunch of heathens,' León sneered.

Guzmán stamped on León's crotch. The
sargento
howled and rolled onto his side, clutching his groin. ‘You're finished here,' Guzmán said. ‘Pack your bags.'

León struggled to his knees and spat blood onto the floor. ‘You can't do that.'

‘I just did,' Guzmán said. ‘And start referring to me by rank,
cabrón
.'

The
sargento
's pig-like eyes narrowed. ‘
Sí, mi Comandante.
'

Guzmán noticed the young woman standing by the door, watching events with interest. ‘You'd better come with me, señorita.' She didn't blink.
I'm losing my touch.

As he went into the corridor, Guzmán called to Ochoa. ‘Go to the radio room and arrange the
sargento
's immediate transfer.'

Guzmán took the young woman outside. They stood looking at the spectacular view of the valley and the mountains, listening to the noise of the flag rippling in the breeze.

‘Don't you think it's beautiful here, señor?' she asked.

Guzmán paused for a moment before answering. ‘No.'

Inside the
cuartel
, León was throwing his things into a kitbag. Some of the men gathered round, watching him pack. ‘It's too bad, Sarge,' one said. ‘You had a good thing going here.'

León turned on him, his face red with anger as he slung his kitbag over his shoulder. ‘That bastard won't be here long. They can't hack it, those Madrid types.'

‘Why is he here?'

León tapped the side of his swollen nose with a finger. ‘That's for you to find out, Chavez. And if he gets any messages, I'd like to know about them too.'

‘There'd be something in it for me, would there,
Sargento
?'

León hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. ‘Isn't there always?' He walked to the door rubbing his injured crotch. ‘He'll be sorry he messed with me.'

Guzmán took out his cigarette case and offered the young woman a cigarette. When she refused, he lit one, observing her through a wreath of smoke. She was about eighteen or nineteen, pretty, too, her oval face framed by sleek black hair. But it was her eyes he noticed most. They were like the sea before a storm.

‘Why are you looking at me like that, señor?'

‘You seem familiar – I wondered if we'd met before?'

She smiled. ‘We Basques all look alike. The hare face, we call it.'

‘That must be it. Do you live in the village, señorita?'

‘I live there.' She pointed down the valley to a distant farmhouse.

‘You live with your parents, I suppose?'

‘With my aunt. My parents are dead.' She looked at him through strands of wind-blown hair. ‘You Spaniards killed them in your war.'

In Madrid, he would have slapped her for that. ‘We're all Spanish,' he said. ‘One Spain, united and free. Haven't you heard the party members chanting that at their meetings?'

She looked at him, amused. ‘Monkeys will do anything for a banana.'

‘I think you should go home to your aunt,
niña
. And try thinking before you speak in future, otherwise you'll get yourself into some real trouble.'

‘Don't call me
niña
,' she said indignantly. ‘I'm a woman, not a little girl.'

‘I think the expression you're looking for is “
muchísimas gracias
”,' Guzmán said. ‘I just got you out of a nasty situation.'

‘
Eskerrik asko.
' She ignored his frown at the Basque words. ‘Why did you help me?'

He shrugged. ‘I can't stand bullies. How come the
sargento
detained you?'

‘I said something in Euskara about him being a pig.'

‘That was foolish, don't you know it's illegal to speak Basque?'

‘Many things are illegal that shouldn't be. And there was the
brujería
as well.'

‘What witchcraft?'

‘We study the old ways. Some Spaniards think it's anti-Catholic.'

‘You should be careful. Not everyone understands such things.' He looked up at the mountain and peered at a row of dark holes in the steep hillside overlooking the road. ‘What are those?' he asked, pointing. ‘Caves?'

‘It's the Fortaleza de Zumalacárregui. It was built in the eighteen thirties during the First Carlist War. They built it to stop the enemy from using the road.'

‘Did it?'

‘Not really.' Nieves smiled. ‘They built a new road.' Her face brightened. ‘Why don't you visit us one morning, Señor Guzmán? My aunt's a marvellous cook.'

‘I'll try and drop by,' Guzmán said, liking the sound of home cooking. ‘But what's your name? I can't call without knowing who I'm visiting.'

‘Nieves Arestigui.
Para servirle.
' She held out her hand, suddenly formal.

‘And I'm at your service.' He took her hand. ‘In return for me pulling that
sargento
off you, would you do me a small favour?'

‘Don't worry.' Nieves inclined her head to one side. ‘I won't tell anyone about the man from Madrid who's a friend of Franco.' A cheeky grin. ‘Most will know soon anyway. People round here are terrible gossips and Sargento León isn't renowned for his discretion.'

‘Sargento León is packing his bags.'

‘Don't you know what the shepherds say? Squash a tick and another takes its place.
Agur
, Señor Guzmán.' She walked away down the rocky track to the valley, her black hair fluttering round her shoulders like a raven.

Guzmán stared after her. A sudden faint memory, the sound of boots on stone.

Corporal Ochoa was waiting by the entrance to the
cuartel
and Guzmán went to join him, pulling his jacket tight against the breeze.

‘Have they got clean bedding in there?' Guzmán asked.

‘They've got bedding, though it's none too clean.' Ochoa fidgeted for a moment. ‘That young lady, sir. Don't you think—'

‘They all look the same round here,' Guzmán snapped. ‘And I told you before, we don't talk about those things.' He pushed his face towards Ochoa. ‘I don't usually have to repeat my instructions to fucking corporals.'

They walked up the track in silence. Guzmán saw the sunset staining the sky over the mountain and lifted his binoculars. ‘There's something up there,' he muttered, peering at the darkening slopes. He tensed, quickly focusing on the ridge. ‘What the fuck?'

High above them, a line of strangely dressed horsemen were moving along the ridge. Guzmán stared at the profusion of improbable headgear: plumed hats, spiked Prussian helmets and military kepis, great knee-boots and frock coats, swords hanging from their belts. Bright ribbons plaited into the manes and tails of their horses. And then, as the sun slid below the horizon, the detail of the ridge and the horsemen merged into the night, leaving only the obscure bulk of the mountain outlined for a moment against the dying light.