by Mathew Carr
19
So you’re not going to work on Monday?” Señora Claramunt tried to keep her voice calm, because Eduardo could not cope with any agitation. He was staring at his breakfast with a frown, and Esperanza knew that the voices in his head had become stuck. She placed a piece of muffin in his hand to remind him to eat and pointed toward the cup of hot chocolate.
“I can’t not go on a strike that I helped organise, mama,” she replied.
“And what will happen to us if you lose your job!” Eduardo gave his mother a startled look and she reached out and patted his hand.
“The school can hardly remain open when the whole city is on strike,” Esperanza said.
“There could be riots,” her mother insisted.
“I doubt it. The strike is too well organized.”
“And martial law.”
“Ossorio has promised not to do that.”
“These things can’t be controlled! You didn’t see what happened in 1902.”
Esperanza did not reply. On the other side of the room, her father’s sepia portrait stared at her from the wall. The picture had been taken shortly before his death, and it depicted the father she always remembered: a serious, principled, and thoughtful man who would have been a gift to any other country but Spain. Had he been alive she would have told him how the police had tried to prevent the workingmen’s federation meeting the previous day by blocking the entrance to the conference hall. She would have told him how the workers held their own impromptu meetings in cafés and street corners; how they voted unanimously to go on strike and created a three-man committee to prepare for it.
That, she would have told her father, was true democracy, and whatever happened in the next few days, she would never forget the courage and defiance of these humble workingmen. And now that she had seen these things, she could not walk away from them. She would have liked to explain all this to her mother, but Esperanza knew she would only make her more anxious. Esperanza knew that her single overriding aim was to protect her children. As a daughter, she respected these motives and aspirations; as an anarchist there was only one option open to her.
“It’s just a protest strike, mother,” she said. “Twenty-four hours and it will be over.”
“But why can’t you just…”
Esperanza gave her mother a warning look before she could say “find a husband,” because such advice was an insult to her, and it was also an insult to Pau. She knew her mother understood this, and she did not want another quarrel with her now. Instead she put on her hat and cloak, and Eduardo hugged her tightly, just as he had done almost every day since he learned to walk. Her mother remained cold and disapproving, and Esperanza knew she was trying to make her feel guilty. Despite her irritation, it succeeded, and the twinge of guilt persisted as she left the apartment. It was not until she opened the front door and saw the two men standing on the other side of the street that her guilt gave way to a shiver of fear as she recognized Lieutenant Ugarte.
* * *
For a moment Esperanza was tempted to go back inside, but even the thought that Ugarte might enter her mother’s apartment seemed suddenly unbearable. She turned and walked up the street as though she had not seen them. Even without looking she knew that they were following her. Surely they were not going to take her away in broad daylight? She quickened her pace, but Ugarte and his companion were so close behind that she could hear their breathing. She was wondering whether she should run or shout for help when Ugarte said, “Señorita Claramunt.”
Esperanza turned around to face him and touched her glasses, as she always did when she was frightened or nervous. “What do you want?” she asked.
Ugarte screwed up his pineapple face. “I’m sure Director Vargas wouldn’t be pleased to hear that one of his teachers is helping to prepare a general strike. And that would be a pity for your mother and that brother of yours. I mean, he’s never going to get a job, is he? And your mother is working so hard. She’d be very disappointed if you lost yours.”
“And I can’t imagine your mother would be pleased if she knew you were threatening women in the street,” Esperanza retorted. “To say nothing of the other things you do.”
Ugarte shrugged. “My mother passed away some years ago, God rest her soul. But she would understand that the Social Brigade must do whatever is necessary to protect society from its enemies. Sometimes it’s necessary to take people in for questioning. And that can be rather frightening for those who… lack the mental aptitude.”
For a moment Esperanza thought he was talking about her, then she realized to her horror that he was talking about Eduardo.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Just a little warning,” Ugarte said. “Stay at home tomorrow. It would be better for you and your family. And Poblenou really doesn’t need your help, does it?”
Esperanza could not think of anything to say to this, and she turned away in disgust. She half-expected them to follow, but there were no footsteps behind her. She took the streetcar all the way down to the bottom of the Ramblas, and then rode another into Poblenou. It was not until she saw Ruben, standing with Flor, Arnau, and some of the other members of the Invincibles outside the anarchist club on the Calle Llacuna that she wondered how Ugarte had known where she was going. She had agreed to come to Poblenou with the Invincibles to help spread the word about the strike, but it soon became obvious that these efforts were not really required.
As in Gràcia, the workers of Poblenou had already heard about the general strike and they fully supported it. The Invincibles were invited to a meeting at the local workingmen’s association as a show of solidarity, and Ruben gave one of the fiery speeches that Esperanza had come to expect from him. Arnau looked on approvingly, and turned to Esperanza with a smile. “Not the same man is he?” he said.
Esperanza agreed that he was not.
“The struggle changes men very quickly,” Arnau said. “Just as it’s changed you. Pau would be proud of both of you.”
Esperanza did not want to be praised, but she could not help feeling moved that a man like Arnau was able to appreciate her. For a moment she was tempted to tell him about Ugarte, but there was so much else that she would have to tell him that she thought better of it. In the late evening Ruben walked down into Poblenou with Arnau and the other comrades to continue with the agitation, while she and Flor rode back to the Plaza Catalunya in a street car.
“Have you noticed anything unusual about Ruben?” Flor asked suddenly.
Esperanza looked at her in surprise. “He certainly seems different,” she replied cautiously.
“I know. He’s quite the revolutionist, isn’t he? Quite the big man.” Flor smiled bitterly. “No, I don’t mean that. The other day he didn’t come home. He said he was at some meeting and he had to stay the night somewhere. But I’m not an idiot. His jacket smelled of perfume. A whore’s perfume.”
Esperanza could not think how to reply to this, and Flor looked angry and sad as she stared out at the street. “I shouldn’t have told you,” she said. “Now isn’t the time to talk about my broken heart.”
“No, no it’s fine,” Esperanza said. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“My mother says I’m just being stupid and bourgeois,” Flor went on. “Getting jealous at a time like this. But I know Ruben doesn’t love me. I don’t think he ever has. Not the way Pau loved you.”
“What do you mean?” Esperanza was conscious that her voice sounded shrill.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“He wanted to marry you. The day before we went to Montseny with the Ferrers, he told me all about it. He told me all about it. He’d walk you home—and then he’d tell you. He was always saying he was going to do it. I said do it!” Flor looked remorseful now. “So he didn’t?”
Esperanza shook her head. Her throat felt suddenly tight as she remembered how awkward Pau had been that evening.
“That’s a shame,” Flor s
aid. “I told Ruben what Pau was going to do that same night. I was so excited. I said ‘ Looks like I’ll have a sister-in-law soon.’ He was pleased too.”
In that moment Esperanza felt as if she been punched, and she remembered Mata’s warning that someone in her group must have known where Pau was going to be on the night of his death. She had never really believed him. Now it was clear that two people had known. Flor would never have betrayed her own brother, but Ruben was another matter. Ruben was the anarchist with a pocketful of pesetas. It was Ruben who had offered to be Pau’s avenger and asked to be kept informed about what Mata was doing. Ruben had known she was going to be in Poblenou that evening, and Ugarte had known it, too. And according to Flor, Ruben had also known that Pau was going to walk her home on the night of his death.
“Are you all right?” Flor looked at her with concern. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. I just thought you knew.”
For a moment Esperanza considered telling Flor that her husband was an informer who had colluded in the murder of her brother, but this possibility still seemed so unbelievable and incomprehensible that she could not bring herself to say it.
“It’s all right.” She patted Flor’s hand. “I’m glad you told me.”
Flor looked relieved. But as they rode back home through the gathering dusk Esperanza could barely contain her anger, sadness, and revulsion. It was not until she lay in her bed with the light out that she finally allowed herself to cry for the man who had never had the chance to tell her that he loved her. She tried to cry in silence, but Eduardo heard her and came to comfort her as he always did, curling up on top of the bed beside her. Finally she took him back to his own bed, and even as she held his hand to help him sleep, Esperanza knew that it was time to speak to Mata again.
* * *
That Sunday Lawton was woken up by cathedral bells. He had slept well, despite his aches and pains. His right shoulder was stiff from the brawl with the TB gang, but he felt the same sense of pride and indestructibility that he once felt after a victorious bout, or an ambush or battle that had not killed him. His illness never made him feel like that. After each seizure he only ever felt weak, humiliated, and disgusted with himself.
Now he lay in bed listening to the bells summoning the population to mass, and he felt ready to fight whatever enemies Barcelona could throw at him. But today was Sunday and there was nothing he could do but rest and wait for the week to begin. He was just getting dressed and thinking what to do to pass the time when there was a knock on the door. He opened it to find Señor Martínez looking at him suspiciously, holding an envelope that a policeman had just delivered. Lawton took the message and shut the door behind him. He felt initially pleased to read the handwritten message from Charles Arrow announcing that the Bank of Sabadell had released the address of Randolph Foulkes’s beneficiary.
His satisfaction immediately faded when he read the lines informing him that the Office of Criminal Investigation intended to carry out a search of the beneficiary’s house at midday and make any necessary arrests. Lawton stared at the message in disbelief. Until now, Arrow had shown no interest in his investigation. It had been difficult enough to persuade him to issue a formal police request. Now he was preparing to arrest Foulkes’s client himself, presumably so that he could claim credit for it. This prospect filled Lawton with sudden fury. He grabbed his hat and jacket and hurried out into the corridor. Martínez was still looking at him expectantly, but Lawton strode past him without a word. His serenity and confidence were completely gone now as he walked up the sandy thoroughfare through the strolling crowds. At the top of the Ramblas, a group of armed police were looking warily at the passing pedestrians and he saw that some of the men were being stopped and searched. He arrived at the OCI’s office to find Arrow sitting at his desk, surrounded by four uniformed policemen.
“Mr. Lawton,” he said. “You got my message.”
“I did.” Lawton glanced down at the Browning semiautomatic on Arrow’s desk. “May I ask what’s happening, sir?”
“As I said. We’re going to arrest this Weygrand and his companion.”
“With respect sir, I only asked for the address.”
“You did.” Arrow slotted the pistol into a waist holster. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said. If this Weygrand was responsible for the Bar la Luna bombing then this is a matter for my department. Especially as the Brigada doesn’t seem interested.”
“But I am.” Lawton tried not to raise his voice. “As you know. I’m carrying out a private investigation, and I would have preferred to watch the house and see who comes and goes from it before any arrests were made. There are other people involved in this.”
“Any relevant information will be obtained in an interrogation,” Arrow said, with a shrug. “Which I will conduct. You’re welcome to accompany my men. That’s why I told you what we’re doing.”
Lawton was tempted to tell Arrow that he had no idea what was relevant or not, but he had no desire to share any more information with a man who was clearly only out to win glory for himself and his department. Arrow stood up and his officers accompanied him down to the street. Lawton followed them and waited as they clambered into the waiting cab with their sabers and shotguns. He squeezed in beside them and stared morosely out the window as the cab trotted northward up the Calle Muntaner, into a hillier part of the city that Lawton had not seen. Soon the carriage turned left, past a velodrome where a stream of cyclists was riding around a raised dirt track while young men played football in a sports park at the center.
The tension in downtown Barcelona was distinctly absent in this part of the city. From these heights Barcelona looked as tranquil and sedate as Regents Park on a Sunday afternoon, and its population seemed entirely dedicated to innocent pleasures that were difficult to associate with murder cults, bombs, and strikes. After rounding some apartment blocks of recent construction they entered a neighborhood of broad streets lined with trees and opulent-looking mansions and villas that made Lawton think of a Mediterranean Kensington. This, Arrow explained, was Sarrià, one of the wealthiest areas of Barcelona, where Foulkes’s client had given her address. Most of the streets were unpaved, but a steady stream of cyclists, carriages, and expensive-looking automobiles drifted past the beige villas, monasteries, well-kept gardens, and strolling families.
Some of the pedestrians stopped and stared as the cab came to a halt and Arrow and his men got out with their weapons. Arrow walked just ahead of Lawton and his men. Despite his annoyance, Lawton could not help feeling a certain excitement and anticipation as they turned into another elegant street lined with palm trees. They were about halfway along it when Arrow paused in front of a brown three-storey villa. As soon as Lawton saw the cracked façade, the shuttered windows, and overgrown yard, he sensed that something was wrong. Arrow was also frowning as he pushed open the little iron gate and marched up the dirt path. Lawton glanced warily at the cracked balcony overlooking the door, as a white cat hissed at them and retreated to a nearby bush, while the four policemen stood facing the door like a firing squad with their shotguns raised.
Arrow banged the rusty doorknocker. There was no response, and he knocked again. He was just about to look around the back, when Lawton heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back from inside the house. Finally the door opened and an elderly lady in a long black dress stood blinking like a mole in the sunlight as Arrow’s men lowered their weapons.
“Señora, I am Inspector Arrow from the Office of Special Investigations,” said Arrow in his clumsy Spanish. “We’re looking for Marie Babineaux and Dr. Franz Weygrand.”
The old lady stared at him with a look of total incomprehension. Even when Arrow repeated himself, her stupefied expression did not change. It was not until Lawton explained what Arrow was looking for that she seemed to understand him.
“But I don’t know these people, Señor!” she exclaimed. “My name is Nuria Solana. I’ve lived alone here since my husband died. There are only my ca
ts here.”
“Well we need to search the house,” Arrow said brusquely.
Señora Solana seemed to understand him this time, and she stood back anxiously as Lawton and the policemen followed Arrow into a wide hallway that smelled of dust and cat urine. The house did not look as if it had had many visitors in a long time, Lawton thought, as he stood with Arrow and the old lady in the vestibule, while Arrow’s men spread out through the house.
“These people you’re looking for, are they friends of yours?” Señora Solana asked.
Lawton said they were not, and asked her if she ever received any other visitors.
“Who would visit me, Señor?” she exclaimed. “My eldest daughter comes once a week to bring food for me and the cats. She says I should move in with her. But my whole life is in this house. And who would look after my animals?”
Lawton nodded sympathetically. “The name Marie Babineaux doesn’t mean anything to you?” he asked.
“Never heard of her.”
After a few minutes, the policemen returned and said that no one else was living in the house. Arrow apologized for the disruption and withdrew his men. Lawton followed them back along the pathway, past the small crowd of bystanders who had gathered by the front gate, and back down the street to the waiting cab. Arrow did not even look at him now. He stared out the window as the cab made its way down into the city. It was not until they arrived at his offices that Arrow sent his men inside and turned back toward Lawton.
“Please don’t bother me with any more pointless requests, Mr. Lawton,” he said. “I really don’t have time for wild goose chases.”
Lawton was tempted to reply that he had plenty of time for playing billiards and that he had only himself to blame for such a pointless expedition, but he thought better of it, and Arrow turned on his heel and walked back into his offices in obvious high dudgeon. Lawton did not particularly care if he never saw him again, but it was also clear that his last hope of finding Weygrand had faded. There was nothing else he could do that day, and he decided to go and tell Mata. Lawton knew that he would not be in his offices, and he walked into the Eixample and asked for the address Mata had given him.