The Horseman's Song

by Ben Pastor

  Slumping on the saddle eased the soreness in his thighs. Bora checked the mischievous horse by gentle squeezes of his knees, attentive to the simple sounds that rose from the earth. Insect sounds, the shift of dry grass on the verge of the road, the hard click of pebbles under the hoofs: he was ashamed of his lack of simplicity, of being tired and dirty. The day weighed upon him, and he was worried about the wrong things. Maybe I will simply hand over the letter from Colonel Serrano and not go in at all.

  Silent sheet lightning flashed at the edge of the plain and died out. Invisible flocks were revealed by the faint tinkle of bells around a ram’s neck, or a barking sheepdog. In the distance, the huerta of Santa Olalla waited like a dim island. The Northern Cross drew its brilliant pattern right above it, in the way Bora thought constellations must appear to lost sailors seeking a harbour.

  Past the huerta’s gate, the flower beds had just been watered. After the scorching day, there was something almost sinful in the moisture lavished on the plants. Bora stretched his hand to touch the dripping leaves, thinking how he’d love to throw himself face down among the fortunate shrubs.

  Señora Serrano, like the first time, sat on the divan under her portrait. Her sombre figure in the shadowy parlour had lost none of its righteous posture. “You are punctual,” she said.

  Bora stepped forward and presented the colonel’s letter on the open palm of his right hand. “Señora Condesa.”

  She looked at his boots. Bora had dusted them as best he could before entering, and understood that his boots had nothing to do with it. Serrano’s wife was avoiding looking at his face. She reached for the letter, which she laid on a side table without opening.

  “My husband writes me a letter every day,” she commented. “Every day since we met, no matter how near or far we are from one another. I thank you for bringing this one.”

  Bora bowed his head, clicking his heels. Riding here, he’d been debating if and how to bring up the death of Alejandro Serrano. Some expression of condolence was in order, but he felt awkward now that he had to put it into words. “Please accept my profound regrets for your loss,” he said in the end, and given her lack of reaction he couldn’t tell whether his words had affected her.

  As if making up for the lack of courage that had kept her from looking a moment earlier, Señora Serrano stared in his direction. Still she said nothing. In the dusky room she only seemed to stare, inert on the divan, with the proud younger image of herself also gazing from the canvas above.

  Bora understood. He knew what derelict shred of illusion his figure and uniform afforded her in this half-darkness even before she said, in a strangled voice, “Only a moment longer, Don Martín. Please let me look without turning the lights on.”

  All the same, it didn’t take long for these signs of emotion to leave her. When she stood, stiffly walking to the light switch, the practicality of an army wife had returned. “Tell me, have you had dinner?”

  Bora hadn’t anticipated such a question. He’d gone from one errand to the next without even thinking of food. Aside from Señora Vargas’ lemon wedge, a drink of water at the Cadenas’ was all he’d had.

  Señora Serrano noticed his hesitation. “You haven’t had dinner, and it is unthinkable that you should leave without partaking of it. I will instruct the servants.” Her motion to the door had something of a nun’s self-control, energy or frustration harnessed to serve discipline. When she re-entered the parlour, she asked in a careful, dispassionate voice, “I see there is blood on your right sleeve. Are you hurt?”

  Bora followed her stare to the stain. “No, no. It’s nothing. It’s less than nothing.”

  “‘Less than nothing’ does not bleed. Did you have a fall?”

  “I did not. It’s really irrelevant, Señora Condesa. It embarrasses me to speak of it.”

  “Well, soldiers aren’t embarrassed by spilling enemy blood, so it must be something entirely different. Did you have a nosebleed, Don Martín?”

  Bora knew he was looking blankly at her. “Yes. Yes. It just started bleeding this afternoon. I expect I’m not as used to the sun or the heat as I thought.”

  “So.” Her eyes remained on the stain, sharply. “It must have bled a great deal.”

  “It did. I will apologize to the colonel for presenting myself to you in this state.”

  Standing by the sofa, Señora Serrano opened the envelope. “Sometimes not even gentlemen can help their state. You needn’t be self-conscious.” After scanning the letter, she added, “My husband informs me that you’re to spend the night. Of course, you must say yes. Dinner is in an hour, so I hope you won’t mind my taking a few decisions for you. My husband’s attendant will show you upstairs for a bath and change.”

  Bora thought of the lush dripping plants outside, and his sore muscles tensed in anticipation. Whatever he said by confused way of thanks, Señora Serrano dismissed his words. “This is how things are done in our family. We are not used to hearing our offers rejected. I am certain your family is the same way. Had my son visited your mother, she would have extended him the same courtesy.”

  It was far beyond courtesy; it was absolute luxury to have running water, good soap and plenty of towels. By the time Bora left the tub, his boots had been shined and his breeches thoroughly brushed. Fresh linen waited, folded on the bed; it was Alejandro’s room, and these were Alejandro’s things, tailor-made, fine like the underwear his own mother had packed for him in Leipzig. The ageing, prim attendant was unbuttoning a well-cut military shirt on the bed. “This won’t be likely to fit you, Don Martín, your shoulders are too wide. But the Condesa begs you to accept the linen at least. She finished sewing it for Lieutenant Serrano a week ago.”

  Bora looked at the minute, precise hand stitching on the white cloth, running with painstaking evenness like hope itself. It had meaning. It had meaning. This night had meaning.

  Alejandro’s shirt did not fit. Bora laid it on the bed, looking round for the rest of his uniform. “No matter what state they’re in, I’ll need my shirt and tunic back.”

  The attendant spoke from the threshold, one hand on the doorknob. “Your shirt was rinsed and is being ironed. As for the tunic, we have done our best to remove the stain.”

  Alone in the room Bora put on the dead man’s linen, feeling that either great luck or great misfortune would come to him from accepting it.

  EL PALO DE LA VIRGEN

  Leaning forward, Walton laced his boots by candlelight. The wick made a hissing sound on top of the stearin cylinder; the flame widened, narrowed and grew short, and a breath of night wind from the open window smacked it and caused it to sway more.

  Marypaz slept soundly. Her face was in the shade, while the tanned plumpness of her shoulder shone under the web of her black hair. Walton reached for his shirt across the bed, careful not to touch her because he didn’t want to have to talk to her.

  It was a sign of their relationship ending, he thought, that he wanted to avoid her mind. It always started that way. Then he’d start avoiding her body, too. He could have counted on the fingers of one hand the times he’d made love to his wife during the last six months of their marriage. Any sexual interest in her had simply died out, and he’d even felt resentful about sleeping in the same bed with her.

  He’d told Lorca once, at the sanatorium in Barcelona, when the wound had made him feel sorry enough for himself to talk. Lorca listened, his handsome, wide face turned to the window and to Barcelona’s springtime outside. “Were you afraid?”

  The question had made him wince. Walton remembered feeling trapped, defensive. “Afraid? Afraid of what?”

  Lorca had smiled with a kind of brotherly lenience, a friendly geniality. “Of her, I mean. There are good reasons to be afraid of women.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  And now? Tonight there was nothing to be afraid of. Marypaz slept. Walton trimmed the candle, thinking that he’d enjoyed being with her until some moment in time he couldn’t pinpoint. He sto
od up by the bed to put on his shirt. His shadow danced a crazy dance against the wall, according to the swaying of the flame.

  Only Remedios never asked for promises, never gave any. Maybe all he needed was Remedios, who sucked up his life but drew him back to her again and again.

  Walton looked away from the bed and quietly left the room. Below, Maetzu and Brissot were talking, Maetzu sounding agitated. When he heard his name mentioned, Walton stopped at the head of the staircase to listen.

  Brissot sounded as if he’d just scooped a spoonful into his mouth. Bluntly, he answered Maetzu’s question. “He’s upstairs screwing Marypaz.”

  “How long is he going to be?”

  “They’ve been up there ever since they came in. Don’t ask me.”

  “Chernik has gone out for women in Castellar, and the couriers too.”

  The laugh must have been Brissot’s. “Well! I guess it’s rutting time. Why didn’t you go?”

  “I’m here to kill Fascists, not to bed whores.”

  Walton had expected Maetzu’s reply. He could also imagine the face that went with it, humourless and fixed. He heard the dragging of metal on metal as Brissot gathered up the last of his food from the plate while saying, “You could get both things done in Castellar. The Fascists get their pieces there, same as we do.”

  Maetzu’s words came back fast and sour. “You all make me sick. You, Felipe, the others. You foreigners come to Spain to work out whatever you’ve got to work out for yourselves or to make money. All of you. I thought you and Felipe were different, but you’re not. The so-called Spanish comrades are no better. You all squat around trying to convince one another that we shouldn’t attack the Fascist camp, or waste time on a dead faggot who deserved a bullet in his head. You eat and sleep and then you go and find yourself a whore. I’m not that way: I don’t want to go to Castellar. I don’t want to chase whores. I had a wife, and the Fascists killed her. I’m not going to rest until I’ve killed enough to stop thinking about her death and the death of my children.”

  It was the longest sentence Walton had ever heard Maetzu speak.

  “If that’s your reason for killing Fascists” – Brissot grasped for words in his bad Spanish – “you’re even more self-serving than the rest of us. Your motives are more pressing, but that’s about it.”

  The exchange ended. When Walton reached the bottom of the stairs, Brissot was sitting at one end of the table with an empty plate in front of him. At the other end, Rafael and Valentin were deep in a card game. Valentin was dealing and had his back to Walton, but Rafael’s frown was visible to him. The cards between them, which were rapidly put down on the table and picked up again immediately, looked oily and worn.

  “I thought it was your turn to be on watch,” Walton told Brissot in English.

  “It is, but Maetzu wanted it. He’s gone out just now.”

  The greasy smell of leftover beans was so tiresome, Walton grabbed a handful of dry figs instead. He stood munching their crunchy stringiness with an eye on the card players. Brissot also watched them, with the stern look of a scientist observing a potentially explosive experiment.

  Valentin had been speaking under his breath, but the last words distinctly reached Walton’s ear. “If it was me, that’s what I’d do.”

  “I’m not you,” Rafael replied, morosely gripping the bandage on his skinny arm. “How do I know you’re not making it up?”

  Valentin’s slick black hair flipped back as he made a brusque, contemptuous chin-up motion. “’Cause if I was making it up, you’d never believe I was.”

  Only a few of the whispered words that followed stood out enough for Walton to understand: Lost, and look for it, and stop blaming.

  So the topic was the same; Rafael had not given up on it. Walton exchanged a glance with Brissot, who said nothing. Rafael pursed his lip, poring over the cards and prudently laying them face down on the table. Valentin’s eyelids twitched. He held the cards close to his chest, but when he slapped one down it was always to snatch one of the other man’s cards with it. Rafael’s pile grew small, until Valentin tossed the whole stack on the table between them. “See?” He laughed. “I’m cheatin’. I won ’cause I was cheatin’, and you didn’t even realize I was. You ought to listen to me, Rafael.”

  The last fig Walton put in his mouth, shrunken, overly sweet, satiated him. From the table, Valentin turned to address Brissot. “Want to play for money, Mosko? I need money to go to Castellar.”

  “Not now.”

  Walton walked out. On the ledge, the same breeze that had caused the candle to flicker came in harmless puffs, just a shift of air from the valley that kept him from smelling the horses in their enclosure. Stars drew a busy curve across the sky above, like drops of curdling milk in a long, long spill.

  Lorca, who’d asked, “Are you afraid?” and was closer to the truth than he knew, found inspiration in things like a night breeze and a mess of stars. Yet Walton knew that to most men, these things don’t signify as much as being able to fill your stomach or find a job or get out of a small town. There was no poetry in any of that, and listening to Lorca at Eden Lake or in Barcelona was like glimpsing life through someone else’s eyes and being dazzled. But life is real, danger is real. You can’t stay dazzled.

  He couldn’t, and that’s why he’d run away in Soissons.

  The thought stopped him in the dark like a shouted revelation, although he’d carried the secret for twenty years and dealt with it as best he could, coming to Spain because of it as much as he’d come for Lorca’s sake. He’d run away in Guadalajara too, though no one knew it and his wounds told the opposite story. If enemy bullets hadn’t struck him in the soggy misery outside Brihuega, his absence from the battlefield would have been called desertion. He could smile at the thought now, without pride or shame.

  As it was, with blood foaming out of him at every breath, the medics had believed him when they found him in a ditch under the chilling rain. Never mind that he’d been shot twice by accident, by a man who was lost or as much a runaway as himself; wounds are wounds. Walton remembered spitting red saliva and saying the word “scouting” over and again. The medics said, caringly, “Don’t talk; we understand.” Most of the men in his unit had died that day, and the rest had been scattered to fight elsewhere.

  Did he regret it? Safe in the dark, Walton couldn’t quite come as close as usual to comforting himself, though the good old arguments were intact: panic under fire meant no more than the unwillingness to be taken prisoner; it was an extension of his need for freedom. That others had died because of it was a coincidence, not a consequence; no one knew the truth. And the one who most recently could have figured him out – the German who had pointed a gun at his head – didn’t know either.

  Unchangeable, the stars had poured their bright spill over the trenches in France and through the haze in Pittsburgh; in Guadalajara too, and now here. Was that poetry? Pieces and pieces and pieces of rock in the sky, to which a man running away or a dead poet made no difference at all.

  Maetzu stood guard at the edge of camp, a scraggy silhouette on the first terrace. When Walton started talking to him, he didn’t fall for the diversion.

  “If Mosko’s sent you, you might as well know how sick I really am of things here, Felipe. We could blow the Fascists to hell and still have plenty of time to pull south before anyone came riding from Teruel. Nothing’s going on in Teruel, and you keep us sitting on our asses watching the valley.”

  Walton took out a cigarette. The couriers had brought cheap packets captured from the Italians and good loose tobacco, and he intended to use the bad stuff first. “There’ll be plenty happening soon. Our asses are sitting on a volcano. Do you know what Almagro said? He said that in a few weeks it’s going to look like a butcher’s holiday down Teruel way.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “No? Comrade Hernández Saravia has orders to take up positions north and south of Teruel.”

  Maetzu made a strange sound, a
strangled noise from his throat like a repressed shout or a moan. “When? What does it mean for us? When do we get to move?”

  “We’ll know soon.”

  At once Maetzu was trembling; Walton could hear the unsteadiness in his voice. “Felipe, if you’re lying to me I’ll cut your throat.”

  “It’s the truth. As for cutting throats or any other part of the human body, Valentin has done all the knife work I’m going to take from this group.”

  A lazy shuffle of hoofs came from the enclosure behind the house. Maetzu lifted his rifle and called out. “It’s just me,” Valentin called back. “Can’t a man take a piss in peace?”

  Maetzu returned the rifle strap to his shoulder. “Damn gypsy. But we will get to move, Felipe, won’t we? We’ll get into it!”

  “Yes, sure.” The unlit cigarette stuck to his lower lip, and Walton moistened it with his tongue to remove it without stripping his skin. Sure. Reducing the Teruel salient from Saragossa, taking over the Sierra Palomera and the heights of Albarracín: the couriers believed the offensive would come soon, from Tarragona. He didn’t tell Maetzu, but it’d be at the year’s end, most likely, and up the Turia River from Castellón. In any case, it would pass through here, sweeping the valley to Caminreal and beyond. Walton could bring himself to look forward to the attack, but not beyond it: when Almagro had told him, a void had gaped inside him like the false bottom of a box that hinges open. Death catching up with him, that’s what it was. The yellow wall, Soissons and Guadalajara obscured the rest.

  “Iñaki,” he said slowly, “on the night Lorca was killed, someone heard you start down the mountain. Where did you go?”

  Maetzu did not answer, featureless against the backdrop of the sierra as if the rock had absorbed him and made him its own. Walton waited, prepared for a shouting match or worse. Still, he insisted, “Where did you go?”

  The reply was not new, but Walton’s vulnerability was. He felt dread, physical dread and revulsion that had less to do with the words than with the voice speaking them. “I told you. I went looking for blood.”