Death of a Nationalist

by Rebecca Pawel

  Heart pounding, Gonzalo wondered if he was about to be challenged. The gun hidden in the folds of the coat pocket felt heavy. The guardia did not turn around. Instead, he dug in a pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He read for a moment. Then he shaded his eyes with one hand and studied the street sign.

  The tension pounding in Gonzalo’s stomach released itself as fury: first at himself for being stupidly afraid, then at the guardia for walking so coolly and easily into unknown streets, then at the streets themselves for allowing this invasion, and finally once more at himself, for being powerless to stop the guardia from going where he wished. Had Gonzalo been able to see the slip of paper in the guardia’s hand, with his own address written on it, he would probably have used his weapon. Since he could not see the paper, he raised his head and marched across the street with steps kept firm by pride and adrenalin.

  He was walking with his head high and his thoughts elsewhere when a voice said, “Hello, Gonzalo! How are you?”

  Gonzalo started and found himself facing a stooped man with several days of gray stubble on his furrowed throat. The man was smiling, apparently very pleased at having caught Gonzalo’s attention. “And your sister?” the old man continued. “How’s she? Did she ever marry that young carpenter fellow?”

  “Errr . . .” Gonzalo tried desperately to place the man. He was vaguely familiar but Gonzalo had no idea from where. Who on earth, he wondered, still remembered Pedro Palomino as a carpenter’s apprentice? “Err . . . fine. Yes, actually. She’s fine.”

  The man coughed and spat between a gap in his teeth. “Good, good. Glad to hear it. No good will come of this war, I said. But I remember you and that carpenter boy, all dressed up and proud of yourselves. . . .”

  “And how are you, sir?” Gonzalo interrupted desperately.

  “Oh, don’t worry, son. Old Tacho knows when to keep his mouth shut,” the old man grinned benevolently.

  Something swam out of the depths of Gonzalo’s memory. Summer evenings in the Plaza Tirso de Molina, endless games of tag among the strolling couples, then later becoming part of a strolling couple himself. Through it all, the smell of burnt sugar and the cries: “Tacho, here’s ten centimos,” “Tacho, give me a churro,” “Tacho, a chocolate for the young lady.” He superimposed the face of the man behind the fragrant cart of hot pastry onto the face of the man in front of him. The image fit. But surely Old Tacho had been fatter?

  “How are you, sir?” Gonzalo asked again, more gently. He had never called Tacho “sir” before.

  “Oh, times are bad, times are bad.” The old man shook his head. “But it’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise,” Gonzalo agreed.

  He started to walk again, and Old Tacho shuffled along beside him. “I don’t suppose you’d have any bread, Gonzalo? For old times’ sake.”

  The wheedling note in the man’s voice made Gonzalo blush with shame. “No,” he said, staring at the ground and feeling like a hypocrite, although he was speaking the simple truth. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, well. God bless.”

  “Thanks. And you.” Gonzalo wondered, as he walked away, if Old Tacho believed in God. Maybe he thought heaven was a crowded square on a summer evening, with the smell of chur-ros and hot chocolate hanging between the buildings like the colored lights and streamers. Maybe he was right: The concept had the fuzzy, implausible quality of a Sunday-school fable.

  Gonzalo’s mind slipped away from the faded memories of a life without war and focused on his appointment once again. He could not afford to buy information. But he could threaten. The black marketeers, he told himself nervously, were not soldiers. They might bear him a grudge afterward, but they would tell him what he needed to know if he pointed a gun at them. If a guardia civil was involved, as the smuggler had hinted, it would be best not to threaten. It occurred to Gonzalo that he might actually be on his way to meet Viviana’s murderer. For a moment, he was elated at the idea that it might be that simple. Then he remembered that he had left without telling his sister he was taking the gun and that she would probably be waiting anxiously for his return. I should have told her that I might not be coming back, he thought. I don’t want her to lose sleep. He regretted the oversight but only in the way a man who has just watched the train station fade into the distance regrets forgetting to bring a toothbrush. It was a minor annoyance but it would not change his course.

  He reached the Calle Alcalá, and began to walk alongside the park. Although he had confidently claimed the day before that he knew the spot meant, he realized that there were two possible gates, neither of them directly opposite the Guardia Civil post. He settled for the nearer one, willing to rest for a few minutes before walking farther. A nearby clock began to chime. It was still only four-thirty. Gonzalo settled onto a bench near the entrance and pulled at the collar of his coat. He was cold, and the encounter with Old Tacho had reminded him that it was best to hide his face. He buried his hands in his pockets for warmth.

  The wind blew scraps of paper and dead pine needles along the walkways of the park. It passed easily through Gonzalo’s coat, making him shiver and making the gun he was clutching seem ice-cold. The clock struck four-forty-five. The park was empty, except for a few old women in black. “It’s the waiting that drives men mad,” the young milicianos had told each other sagely. “The waiting’s the worst part of combat.” They had told each other this in the tense autumn of ’36, proud of their maturity, until an old soldier who had fought in Morocco had laughed at them. “Shit, boys, the worst part of combat is combat. Enjoy the waiting while you can!” The clock struck five. Gonzalo stood up, trying to look nonchalant, and began to make his way toward the other entrance. He had clearly mistaken the directions.

  The other entrance was similarly deserted. Gonzalo hesitated, wondering if perhaps he should head back to his original spot or whether he ought to rest a while here. Perhaps the men had forgotten the appointment. Perhaps they had been unavoidably detained. Perhaps the whole thing was a trap. Gonzalo began to walk back the way he had come, as rapidly as possible. At his original bench, he paused again. It might be worth waiting another few minutes.

  At five-fifteen Gonzalo was about to leave his bench when he heard voices coming from the entrance of the park and saw a man in the uniform of Franco’s army heading toward his bench. The man wore the fasces of the Falange in his lapel. Gonzalo froze and then saw that the Falangist’s companion was a girl. The couple passed him without acknowledging his presence. The young soldier had one arm around the girl’s waist and was gesturing expansively with the other to illustrate some point. Gonzalo watched them until they were out of sight, his hand trembling from the effort of not raising his weapon.

  Another person entering the park distracted him. This time it was a man with a suitcase who walked briskly. He was dressed as a businessman might dress if there had been any prosperous businessmen left in Madrid. He carried the suitcase lightly, with one hand, as if it were a briefcase and his coat was belted tightly around him. He checked at the sight of Gonzalo. “Good afternoon, sir.” He touched his hat. “Fancy meeting you here. Are you heading toward the lake?”

  It was the man Gonzalo had spoken to the previous day. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “So am I,” the man with the suitcase said easily. “Care to walk with me?”

  “A pleasure.” As they strolled along the gravel walkway, Gon-zalo lowered his voice. “You’re late.”

  “Business matters,” the other replied, hardly moving his lips.

  They turned onto a narrower walkway, under what was intended as a canopy of ornamental trees, trimmed in the French style. But the trees had grown wild for the last few years and now there were only bare and gnarled branches that rattled in the wind. Gonzalo glanced around. “You’re on your own today?”

  “Yes. My . . . colleague had other business.”

  Gonzalo hesitated. One man would be easier to deal with, if it came to that, but he was unsure how to broach the su
bject that interested him. He kept silent, hoping that the other man would make the opening gambit. He was not disappointed.

  “I can get what you want.” The man’s voice was pitched so low that the crunch of gravel nearly drowned it out. “But I’ll need an advance.”

  “Why?” Gonzalo demanded, keeping to his role of suspicious customer.

  “It’s not the sort of thing you buy on credit, friend. Fifty pesetas.”

  “Fifty!” Gonzalo choked, forgetting his mission. He wondered for a moment if anyone in the city had that kind of money to waste. “You’re joking.”

  “Fifty in advance. Twenty-five when I get you the goods. Burgos currency, of course.”

  Gonzalo reminded himself that it was a waste of time to bargain over money that he did not have anyway. “How do I know you won’t just take the fifty and disappear?” he demanded.

  “You take my word for it.”

  “And why shouldn’t I just buy directly from your . . . supplier?” Gonzalo asked carefully.

  “If you want to deal directly, friend, no one’s stopping you.” The man’s voice held a note of triumph.

  Gonzalo took a deep breath. The time had come to take a plunge. He could use the gun. Or he could play a hunch that was almost as risky. He glanced around. Ahead of them, he could see the path broadening out by the side of the lake where the trees ended. But the walkway was deserted. The gun or the guess. “You’re lying,” he said softly.

  “Think what you like.” The man shrugged, and picked up his pace a little.

  “Your supplier is dead,” Gonzalo continued, matching his stride. “He was killed last week, wasn’t he? In the Calle Amor de Dios. That’s why you can’t get me the stuff now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The smuggler’s voice shook. He stopped and turned to face Gonzalo.

  “Right,” Gonzalo said, pleased at the man’s reaction. “So you weren’t buying from a guardia civil and you didn’t kill him last week? Why didn’t you kill him, by the way? Weren’t you having an argument about the profits?”

  “No!” The smuggler’s self-control crumbled. “I never killed anyone. I didn’t even know he was dead until . . .” He stopped, his face blanched above his dark coat. “Why the hell do you care anyway? Oh, shit, are you a guardia?”

  In answer, Gonzalo drew his gun and held it against the other man’s ribs. “Didn’t know he was dead until when?” he asked.

  “Until you told me!” The smuggler stared at the gun, seemingly fascinated.

  Gonzalo mentally cursed himself for giving the man time to recover from his slip. “Was he demanding too high a price?” he asked again.

  “No.” The smuggler held his hands a little away from his sides and seemed to be sucking in his stomach to break its contact with the gun. “No, he never gave a damn about the profits. Sent them all to some girl. We had no quarrel with him. And that’s the truth, I swear. For the love of God, I swear. He did his part, and we did ours but I never killed him. None of us did!”

  “Who did, then?”

  “I don’t know.” The man’s voice had a ragged edge. “A Red sniper, I thought.” He gasped as the gun burrowed into his rib cage again.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Our new supplier. He said it was a coincidence.”

  Gonzalo’s voice was tense. “What happened to the sniper?”

  “I don’t know! I swear, I don’t know. I heard he was dead. But it wasn’t any of us! It was the guardias civiles on patrol from another post.”

  “Which other post?”

  “Manzanares, I think.” The smuggler gulped. “But it wasn’t anything to do with the goods. A Red killed Paco, and then someone from Manzanares killed the Red. That’s all!”

  “Isn’t this mystery man from Manzanares your new supplier?” Gonzalo asked.

  “No. Honestly! This guardia—a sergeant, I think—he’s straight as an arrow. That’s what señor . . . that’s what our supplier says. To watch out for him!”

  “A sergeant, from the Manzanares post,” Gonzalo repeated slowly. “You’re sure?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Say, what are you interested in anyway? First it’s the goods, and then it’s Paco, and now it’s this sergeant. Who are you and what are you after?”

  Gonzalo realized that he had better end the interview quickly. There were a few people around the lake in the distance and while it was unlikely that any of them had noticed the figures on the walkway, the longer he delayed, the more chance there was of discovery. Besides, the smuggler seemed to be losing some of his initial fear. He might yell for help, or simply flee, at any moment. “You’re lucky I’m not like them,”Gonzalo said. “Or you’d be a dead man by now.” He hesitated a moment. “Put down the suitcase. Now turn around. Keep your hands where I can see them.” He pressed the gun into the small of the smuggler’s back, then withdrew it a little. Now for the tricky part. He bent his knees and picked up the suitcase. It was heavy for him to lift with one hand, and his other arm was starting to ache from the weight of the gun. “Start walking,” he ordered, hoping that none of his nervousness showed in his voice. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Very slowly, the man began to walk, hands still held a few inches from his sides. Gonzalo kept a pace behind, doing his best to move silently over the gravel. Slowly, he allowed himself to fall farther and farther behind the smuggler. A little way from the lake, a smaller, dirt-covered path crossed the main walkway. Gonzalo waited until he reached the cross path, then hastily slipped the gun into his pocket and ducked down the narrow path, lugging the suitcase with both hands. In summertime, the high shrubs would have rendered him invisible. As it was, he hoped that the brown and tangled bushes would provide sufficient cover for him to get well away. He pounded down the path, heading for what had once been the rose gardens. He was tempted to abandon the suitcase but its weight promised food, and to give it up now after risking so much seemed cowardly.

  The smuggler, Gonzalo hoped, would not rouse the guardia civil. Gonzalo had not absolutely denied that he was a member of the guardia and it would be difficult for the man to avoid awkward questions about the contents of the suitcase in any case. Still, he did not breathe easily again until he was well out of the park and back in the shelter of the streets. Then he leaned against a gray stone apartment house, pockmarked with shells, and allowed his pounding pulse to return to something resembling its normal rate. Bracing himself against the building, he realized that he was dizzy, and sank down onto the suitcase between his knees, and then leaned over, so that his hair nearly brushed the cobblestones.

  A sergeant from the Manzanares post, he repeated, as he slowly forced himself into a sitting, and then a standing position. It wasn’t wasted time. A sergeant from the Manzanares post. The walk home took him a long time. The suitcase was heavy and his flight through the park had weakened him. Nevertheless, by the time he reached home, breathless and sweating, he was closer to happiness than he had been since the day he had learned that Viviana was dead. He dragged the suitcase into the dim living room. “Carmen?” he called.

  “Gonzalo?” She appeared from the kitchen. “Gonzalo! Oh, thank God! Thank God!” She rushed at him and hugged him fiercely, gasping with dry sobs.

  “I’m glad you’re glad to see me,” he said, bemused. He remembered how he had calmly contemplated the possibility of dying without telling her, and felt a flicker of remorse. “But look what I’ve brought.” He pushed her away, and bent to open the suitcase.

  It fell open with a thud, and a few roundish objects bounced out. Carmen dropped to her knees and picked one up. “Potatoes,” she whispered. “And . . . meat! Gonzalo, how . . .?”

  “It’s a long story.” He watched the tears spilling freely over her cheeks now and felt something approaching contentment.“I’ll tell you while you cook.”

  She nodded, and carefully placed the packages back in the suitcase, holding it to her chest as if it were an infant. “Of course.” She smiled a
t him. “Of course, Gonzalo. Oh, thank God.”

  “Now why were you so worried?” he asked, trying to smile at her as they headed for the kitchen. “Don’t you have any faith in your brother?”

  To his surprise, she did not rally under his teasing. “It wasn’t that.” She set the suitcase on the kitchen table. “There was a guardia civil here while you were gone. Asking all kinds of questions. I think he suspects that I’m hiding a carbinero.”

  A day earlier, Gonzalo would have accepted her statement with fatalistic calm. Now, with his search for Viviana’s killer so close to its goal and the pleasurable feeling of having found food for the family flooding over him, it stirred him to action. “We’ll talk about it over dinner,” he said firmly. “There must be a way out.”

  Chapter 10

  Tejada had found his way as far south as Atocha fairly easily but finding the Calle Tres Peces presented some difficulty. He had visited the capital as a student and was acquainted with the major streets, and he had gained some more recent knowledge from studying maps but the twisting and ill-marked pathways of the inner city were unfamiliar to him. The fact that shells appeared to have hit many of the street signs (if there had ever been street signs) did not make his quest easier. He finally stopped an old man and demanded directions. His demand was brusquer than he realized, for he was annoyed by the unaccustomed feeling of incompetence and the stink of the streets depressed him. Looking at the chipped and peeling facades, and the houses unsteadily propped up by planks where neighboring buildings had decayed or been destroyed, Tejada found himself longing for a bulldozer and a decent architect. A grid, he thought. Modified, designed to radiate around the central boulevards. You could finish knocking down these relics and rebuild the streets wide enough for a jeep to pass, if you added a few stories on to make up for lost depth. The street he had been following merged seamlessly with another, without bothering to change its name. Definitely a grid, Tejada thought with disgust, wondering if the directions he had received were still accurate.