The Anarchist Who Shared My Name

by PABLO MARTÍN SÁNCHEZ

The afternoon passes even more peacefully than the morning, all except the last hour. Julianín has made good progress in a short amount of time, and he’s beginning to be more of a help than a hindrance. The strategy of five cents per error appears to be working, and now he corrects the proofs with such zeal that Pablo has to be very careful when typesetting if he doesn’t want to break the bank. You might say that the boy has taken to heart the motto of the great typographer Firmin Didot, posted above the door: “An erratum injures the eye just as a false note in a concerto injures the ear.” The truth is, Pablo is starting to grow fond of the lad, despite his meek, taciturn personality. That’s why he does a double take when, at the end of the day, while diligently cleaning some plates, the boy breaks his usual silence to mumble, “I’m going to sign up for the expedition.”

  “What?” asks Pablo, jarred.

  “I’m going to sign up for the revolutionary expedition. I don’t want to spend my whole life standing by, waiting for them to let me go back to my country.”

  “But do you have any idea what you’re saying?” Pablo reproaches him. “You’re still just a boy.”

  “I thought you might be on board as well.”

  “Me? On board for this suicide mission? Who gave you that idea?”

  “I don’t know, I see you all the time with that joker in the bowler hat, the guy in charge of recruiting people, and I thought maybe—”

  “Well, you think too much, Julianín. Get those crazy ideas out of your head.”

  “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going,” replies Julianín, with aplomb.

  “What do your parents have to say about it?” is all that Pablo can think to say, surprised at the boy’s courage.

  “They can say what they want, I’m not a baby.”

  “Listen, why don’t you go home, and take tomorrow off. Maybe you can use the time to think calmly about whether or not it’s a good idea—”

  Julianín thanks him, gathers up his things, and leaves. As soon as he is gone, Robinsón enters.

  “Ah, just the man I was hoping to see. The illustrious corruptor of youth!”

  “Listen, Pablo, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I need to tell you a lot of things and there’s no time to lose.”

  “No time to lose, you say!” Pablo exclaims, somewhat irritated. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing ever since you got here: losing time. And now, on top of everything, now you’re filling the kid’s head with your revolutionary ideas!”

  “If you’re talking about that kid who just left, it was him who came to me. And you should follow his example. It seems you don’t grasp the seriousness of the situation. We’re trying to save Spain, goddammit!”

  “You’re trying to save shit!” and he throws the plate Julianín has just cleaned onto the floor. The metallic clang reverberates for a few seconds as the old friends stare into each other’s eyes. Then, Pablo plops into a chair. “I’m sorry, Robinsón, I don’t know what’s come over me, maybe I’m getting old. You know that ten years ago I would have been the first in line to take up arms and run off to liberate Antarctica if necessary. But I just don’t see it. I have a feeling that Primo de Rivera wants us to do something like that. If we cross the border and fail, there will be no way to get rid of him. He’ll repress the rebellion and it’ll give him more legitimacy, because he’ll say Spain needs to treat rebels with a heavy hand.”

  Robinsón weighs his friend’s words.

  “If that’s really what you think,” he says, finally, “why are you helping us? Why did you take the letter to Amiens? Why did you agree to print the posters?”

  Now it is Pablo who meditates on his friend’s words.

  “I don’t know. I suppose my heart admires what you’re doing, but my head disagrees. Although maybe what’s really happening is simply that I’m afraid and I’m making excuses so I won’t have to admit it.”

  Robinsón smiles:

  “Afraid, you? I don’t believe it,” he says, squatting down next to Pablo. “And even if it were true, you know what my father used to say: only the brave can feel fear. I don’t know, it’s possible you’re right and we’re putting the cart before the horse, but that’s a risk we have to take. It’s our dignity at stake here, Pablo, as individuals and as a people … Come on, let’s go, it’s your turn to buy me a drink.”

  And as they walk down Rue Belleville looking for a discreet bar that serves soft drinks, Robinsón tells Pablo everything that has happened since he left the loge at the Salle des Sociétés Savantes. Because things are coming to a head.

  Last night, when Ramón Recasens asked Naveira if he would join him at the meeting of Unamuno and Blasco Ibáñez, Naveira replied that he was busy printing, that he would stay a while longer at the safe house on Rue Vilin, to see if he could develop the latest set of photographs for false passports. Fifty minutes later, as he was working in the darkroom they had set up in what used to be a bathroom, there was a knock at the door. Naveira thought for a moment that it was Recasens coming back for something he’d forgotten, but it wasn’t the agreed-upon code knock. He dried his hands and came out of the darkroom just in time to escape through the window when the police started breaking through the door. He didn’t have time to gather up his materials. And there on the table were the photographs of the best-known members of the Group of Thirty, those who absolutely had to have false passports to avoid endangering the mission: Durruti, Ascaso, Vivancos, Massoni, Recasens himself, Teixidó, and several others. Naveira hid on the roof, shivering with cold and praying the gendarmes wouldn’t find him.

  Only after he could no longer hear their voices did he abandon his hideout and run to the Salle des Sociétés Savantes. He had to argue with a concierge to let him in, but the man wouldn’t let him pass until he heard the applause signaling the end of Unamuno’s speech. Only then was Naveira able to talk with Recasens and meet with Durruti and Ascaso to tell them what had happened.

  “It’s a real blow,” says Robinsón, attacking a raspberry juice. “Now nobody trusts anybody. The French authorities are supposed to turn a blind eye to us, because after all we’re their political refugees, but now the gendarmes won’t leave us in peace. Someone said they saw Fenoll Malvasía in Paris—the head of security for Primo de Rivera’s government. Some people think he came to negotiate with the French police, others think he came to consult with one of his many informants. Wow, this is good juice.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Everyone has a different idea. We can’t start slipping now, we have to keep pushing forward and working while we wait for word from Jover and Caparrós at the border. But people are starting to get nervous, ’cause it doesn’t seem normal that they’re taking so long to give a sign of life. In any case, Recasens and Naveira will get back to work as soon as we find another safe house where we can set up the counterfeiting equipment.”

  “And what if the telegrams finally come, saying it’s time to enter Spain, but the passports aren’t ready?”

  Robinsón clicks his tongue and takes another sip of juice.

  “In all likelihood, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Then we’ll have to make a decision. I think it’s too risky for people like Durruti and Ascaso to travel with their real passports along with the rest of the expedition, because they might put it in danger. But there are others who think it’s not fair for the masterminds to stay in Paris and send the rest of us to do the dirty work.”

  “And what’s happening with the guns?”

  “We spoke with Blasco Ibáñez today. It’s very likely that he will give us money to buy them.”

  In fact, last night while Luís Naveira was explaining to Durruti and Ascaso that the police had discovered the counterfeiting lab, Pedro Massoni had placed himself in a strategic position to catch Ibáñez when he finished his speech. A little old man beat him to the author, and reproached Ibáñez for flirting with Bolshevik communism, but the novelist settled him down by whispering something in his ear. Only then was Masson
i able to talk with him and accompany him to a private booth, where Unamuno was already sitting, talking with Marcelino Domingo and Ortega y Gasset. There, he tried to explain to Ibáñez why they needed his help.

  “Listen, kid,” Don Vicente cut him off, “any other day and I’d have told you to go fly a kite. But in times like this, you have to support even the craziest causes. On Saturdays I usually eat at my friend Pepe’s restaurant on Montmartre, between the Lapin Agile and Place du Tertre. If you want, you can swing by around two, and we’ll have a cognac while you tell me all about it. This is not the place to talk about certain things. My friends might be shocked.”

  Letting out a cackle, he went to sit with the shockable trio.

  So it was that today at midday, after eating, Durruti and the limping Massoni and Vivancos walked to the top of the hill of Montmartre. The city was dressed in its best finery to celebrate All Saints’ Day, and throngs of Parisians were out visiting Montmartre and the garish Sacré Coeur (whose construction was just completed five years ago) to pay their respects to their ancestors. The sun was shining timidly, and from the door of the basilica there was a magnificent view of the city, which extended like a dense forest, dotted here and there by various species: on the left, the Bois de Vincennes; Notre Dame and the Pantheon straight ahead; and the Eiffel Tower on the right, forming a sharp peak between the surrounding trees … When the three anarchists reached Place du Tertre, a zeppelin crossed the sky, attracting the attention of everyone below, who hadn’t forgotten the German bombardment during the Great War. “Look, a flying whale!” shouted a child, eliciting some laughter from the crowd. But the three men ascended the hill for less festive reasons: to meet with Blasco Ibáñez and ask him for fifty thousand francs so they can buy weapons from a Spanish smuggler working in Paris.

  Shortly before reaching the Lapin Agile cabaret, Durruti, Massoni, and Vivancos found the restaurant owned by Ibáñez’s friend Pepe. Blasco, elegantly dressed and wearing a Legion of Honor medal on his lapel, looked surprised to see these three bandit-looking men enter the restaurant and walk toward the table where he had been smoking a cigar, amusing himself by blowing smoke rings while looking out the window at the many passersby. Most likely he had forgotten the appointment. Or he was only expecting Massoni. Whatever the case, he greeted them courteously one by one and invited them to sit down at the table. But the restaurant was still full and it didn’t seem appropriate to discuss certain things, so, after a few minutes of small talk, Blasco picked up his glass of cognac and stood up:

  “Wait for me here, gentlemen. I’ll be right back.”

  The three anarchists watched him approach a short, portly man, whose thick mustache and bushy eyebrows gave him the appearance of a walrus. After exchanging a few words, he returned to the table.

  “Don José has kindly agreed to let us have his best private room to talk for a few minutes. Don’t forget to tip him well when you leave.”

  And he led them to the rear of the restaurant, where, after parting a red velvet curtain and going through a glass door, they entered a small room with a rough round table in the center, surrounded by a few worn-out, shabby armchairs. Who knows where revolutions would have been planned if it hadn’t been for private rooms?

  “Voilà!” exclaimed Blasco, making a theatrical gesture with his arm, and inviting them to sit down.

  Durruti was the first to speak. He gave the writer a rundown of the activities that the Committee is conducting in Paris, before laying out the matter that brought him to Montmartre today: the revolutionary expedition that they are organizing to enter Spain and overthrow the dictatorship.

  “And what would you like me to do for you, gentlemen? You don’t expect me, at my age, to take up arms and run off to liberate Spain?” asked Blasco, rubbing his enormous belly with glee.

  “No, of course not,” Massoni chimed in, “we have human resources taken care of. There are a hundred men ready to cross the border. But we need weapons.”

  “Ha! We can talk to Don José, see if he’ll loan us some steak knives,” Blasco laughed, releasing a cackle that made him shake and cough violently.

  “This is no time for joking,” Vivancos interjected with unexpected firmness.

  “There’s always time for joking,” Massoni replied in a conciliatory tone, “but I’m convinced that Don Vicente is much more than a comedian. After hearing him speak last night and the other day at the Community House, I don’t think there’s any doubt you’re one of us. We’ve heard your Russian friends have given you a huge amount of money to finance a pamphlet that you’re planning to distribute for free. I’m sure that, even if it was only a fraction of what people say, you’ll have enough money to cover all of Europe with your words—”

  “Hey, let’s not exaggerate,” Blasco interrupted. “If that were true, the pamphlet would already be in circulation. Oh, so I’ve been thinking about calling it A Nation Kidnapped, what do you think?”

  “Magnificent,” Durruti replied, “But if you give us the money maybe you’ll be able to start writing the sequel, A Nation Liberated. Of course, we would be sure to wait until the first pamphlet has sold out before we enter Spain to start the revolution.”

  The writer hesitated a moment, surprised by the response, and finally cackled:

  “You’re very kind, my lad. Tell me, how much money are we talking about here?”

  “Forty or fifty thousand francs.”

  “Mon dieu! That’s no chump change.”

  “We want to do things right,” Durruti interjected.

  “Of course you do, lad, it goes without saying. Look, I’ll see what I can do. Spain doesn’t deserve to be run by those morons, and I will always support any plan to kick them out. It’s a lot of money, but if I can arrange a few things, you can count on it. But you have to promise me you’ll wait until my pamphlet comes out before you start the revolution, of course!” he exclaimed, bursting into another strenuous fit of laughter.

  “Of course, Don Vicente, of course,” Durruti replied without hesitation, almost giving the impression that he meant what he said.

  “If you want, we can meet here on Monday at the same time. With a little luck, I’ll have rounded up the money by then. In any case, vive la bagatelle, as that so-and-so would say … Here’s to the Republic!” Blasco panted, raising his glass.

  “And to liberty!” added Durruti.

  “To liberty!” said Massoni and Vivancos in unison, lifting imaginary glasses, since the rotund writer was the only one who had entered the private room with a drink. They say it’s bad luck to toast with an empty glass, so imagine the disaster courted by toasting with no glass at all.

  After saying goodbye, the three young men exited the restaurant, leaving an appropriate tip. Outside, the sky over Montmartre had grown overcast. They started walking downhill, each absorbed in his thoughts, and when they reached Rue des Martyrs they were surprised by the sound of a car horn.

  “Need a lift anywhere, gentlemen?” asked Blasco with a nouveau riche grin from the backseat of his Cadillac, driven by his trusty Ramón.

  The three anarchists looked at each other for a moment, then shook their heads. Blasco’s Cadillac disappeared down the hill on the way to the Hôtel du Louvre.

  VIII

  (1906–1908)

  THE PERPETRATOR WENT BY THE NAME Mateo Morral. He was twenty-six years old, a native of Sabadell. The dynamite-laden bouquet of roses he tossed from the balcony of house number 88 on Calle Mayor took the lives of more than twenty people, injuring several dozen more. Graphological investigation found that Morral was the very man who had carved the death threat on the tree in the Retiro, perhaps as an act of self-denunciation to escape his destiny. Two days later, he was found in Torrejón de Ardoz, having taken his own life with a bullet to the heart, but not before sending one of his pursuers to the great beyond. Another seventeen anarchists would soon be detained, but two intellectuals ended up paying for the mess, accused of conspiring in the failed regicide: the aged José
Nakens, director of the weekly El Motín, whose office gave Morral refuge after the failed attack, and Francisco Ferrer Guàrdia, founder of the Modern School of Barcelona, where the would-be assassin had worked as a librarian during the months prior to the attacks. Nakens was sentenced to nine years in prison, while Ferrer was acquitted due to lack of evidence, after spending several months behind the iron bars of Madrid’s notorious Modelo prison. Vicente Holgado’s name never came up.

  Pablo and Ferdinando stayed an extra day in Madrid to cover the news of the attack from the scene, and then they returned to Salamanca.

  “Who was that fellow we ran into?” asked Ferdinando for the umpteenth time as the train crossed the fields of Castile.

  “I already told you, I barely know him, Ferdinando.”

  “Didn’t you say he was an old friend?”

  “That was just a manner of speaking.”

  “But you must at least know his name, right?”

  “No.”

  With this obstinate denial, Pablo’s inner revolutionary was beginning to win out over his ambitions as a journalist. When they got back to Salamanca, he began frantically reading Bakunin, Proudhon, Kropotkin. His mother shook her head to see him reading such things, and she longed for the days when he used to devour the novels of Jules Verne or Emilio Salgari. But it was the death of Julián Martín that ultimately unleashed his anarchist spirit. One foul day, as Pablo was working at the office of El Castellano, the telephone emitted a fateful, baleful ring:

  “It’s for you, Pablito,” said Obdulia, relishing the diminutive.

  “For me?” Pablo was surprised, because it was the first time he had received a telephone call.

  At the other end was his mother’s sobbing voice. She was calling from the Hospital of the Holy Trinity, where they had had to bring Julián. Apparently, two men had attacked him as he was walking toward a school on the outskirts of Salamanca, stabbing him several times in the gut to rob him of the four pennies in his pocket.

  When Pablo arrived at the hospital, he found his mother and sister crying inconsolably outside the room, while the doctor tried to convince the chaplain that his services would not be necessary. Julián barely had the strength to speak, and had lost a great deal of blood.