The Anarchist Who Shared My Name

by PABLO MARTÍN SÁNCHEZ

  “Don’t tell me that. Just hold on tight.”

  When he was halfway across, there was a strong gust of wind.

  “Pablo,” Angela whispered again, her nerves apparently having triggered a case of acute verbal incontinence.

  “What?” Pablo asked, lifting his head.

  “I love you.”

  It wasn’t the best moment to say it, of course, but she didn’t know if she would get another chance.

  “I love you too, Angela,” Pablo responded, hanging over the void. And he thought that after this, even death would not matter.

  Then a noise broke the spell and he saw the night watchman’s light appear at the end of the alley. “Shit,” muttered Pablo. He looked at the ground and felt a wave of vertigo. He clung tightly to the beam and held his breath, while Angela turned off the light in her room, and the night watchman started mumbling incoherent phrases; it was no secret that he had a penchant for doing his rounds with a belly full of port wine. At some point, he looked up and didn’t seem to believe his eyes; he shook his head and slapped his bald spot a few times before wandering off mumbling nonsense.

  “D’you think he saw us?” asked Pablo, when he recovered from the vertigo.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Angela, “he’s not just nearsighted, he’s also always drunk.”

  And Pablo finished crossing that improvised bridge linking the two houses, the two hearts. When he reached the other side, Angela reached out her hand and helped him into the room. Their embrace was the sort that stops time and melts ice. Their mouths searched for each other, and found each other; their tongues recognized each other; their hands went adventuring, and got lost; their lips murmured and were quiet; their throats trembled and panted; their hearts pounded and raced; their skin grew damp with sweat and pale with excitement; their bodies struggled and succumbed; their clothes opened and fell away; their organs grew fluid and engorged; their minds went cloudy; and they lost all notion of time and space.

  When they came to their senses, the light of dawn was coming through the window and a fist was pounding on Angela’s door.

  “Angela! Angela! Open the door, Angela!”

  It was the voice of Don Diego Gómez, lieutenant colonel of the Spanish navy.

  – 9 –

  When the telegram arrived giving the go-ahead to start the operation, at a tumultuous meeting held at the Labor Exchange office of Châteaud’Eau, some members of the organizing committee proposed sending a representative to Spain to confirm the actual preparation and rule out the risk of a police provocation. No one listened to them, and the expedition was set in motion. A project so loudly announced that some of the groups even had a public farewell party at Paris’s Gare Saint-Lazare.

  JOSÉ LUÍS GUTIÉRREZ MOLINA

  El estado frente a la anarquía

  IT WAS THE DEAD OF NIGHT by the time Robinsón finished telling Pablo about what had happened at the restaurant on Montmartre. The vegetarian left the bar in a huff because he had stained his shirt with raspberry juice, and nothing gets raspberry juice out. They walked home and, after smoking a ritualistic cigarette, said goodnight. Robinsón nodded off instantly, but Pablo had trouble falling asleep.

  They got up early in the morning. Both of them had things to do. Outside, it was raining as it always rains in Paris: imperceptibly, until it soaks you through. They walked up toward Belleville together and parted ways at the metro station, Pablo to the right to go to the print shop, Robinsón to the left to go to the International Bookstore on Rue Petit. The morning has been passing uneventfully at La Fraternelle, until Robinsón appears at the last moment, unable to control his excitement.

  “Pablo! Pablo!” he shouts from outside, pounding on the door.

  “What’s going on, have you gone crazy?” he asks, letting him in.

  “The telegram, Pablo, the telegram.”

  “What about the telegram?”

  “It came, we received it this morning at the end of a meeting of the Executive Committee.”

  “And what does it say?”

  “‘Mama, serious. They’re operating this week. Come immediately. María.’”

  Pablo let a whistle escape his lips.

  “And what are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know, there’s an emergency meeting today at the Labor Exchange. There’ll be a plenary assembly to make a decision. That’s why we need the largest possible number of people to attend. We’ll probably have to leave for the border as early as tomorrow, and wait there for the definitive order to enter Spain. However, some Committee members aren’t convinced, because the content of the message isn’t exactly what had been agreed. In addition, apart from the telegram, we don’t know anything about Jover and Caparrós, which is pretty strange, after all. Well, Pablo, I have to run. Got to try to let everyone know. Hey, can I borrow your bike?”

  “Yes, of course, take it.”

  “We still haven’t gotten our hands on the paper for the broadsides …”

  Pablo says nothing. Robinsón insists:

  “You can’t make a revolution with guns alone, and you know it. Words are as important as firepower.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” says Pablo dryly. “I still haven’t finished editing the weekly, and it has to come out tomorrow.”

  “If you’re worried about the letterhead, just cut it off and presto.”

  “I told you, I’ll see what I can do, Robin.”

  The two friends look each other in the eyes for a few moments, intensely.

  “Sure you don’t want to come with us, Pablito?” Robinsón finally asks.

  “Here’s the bike,” is his reply.

  A LITTLE AFTER SEVEN, PABLO HAS finished printing all the copies of Ex-Ilio. He takes out his tobacco pouch and rolls a cigarette parsimoniously, thinking about what Robinsón said. He puts a little tobacco in the palm of his hand, carefully shreds it along the length of the paper, licks the glue and delicately twists it. Deep down, he knows that he’s going to end up giving in to his friend’s request, but if the expedition is leaving tomorrow, he needs to start printing the posters right away.

  Only then does he realize that they have not yet given him the text for the posters. So he smokes the cigarette, closes the shop, and heads home on foot, because Robinsón has not returned the bicycle. It’s almost better this way, he thinks, because although it has stopped raining, there is now a strong breeze, surprisingly chilling for this time of year. Pablo wraps himself tightly in his overcoat and tries to keep warm by blowing on his hands. He wants to get home as quickly as possible to drink something hot, but when he reaches Place de la République his feet suddenly decide to turn right and start carrying him down Rue du Château d’Eau. The Labor Exchange building stands majestically, crowned by a clock that seems to encourage revolutionary hopes: “Fluctuat Nec Mergitur,” is the message displayed on the sphere (and even though this is the motto of the city of Paris, Pablo can’t help but interpret it as an allegorical key: you may be beaten by the waves, comrades, but they shall not sink you). At least it’s warm inside the building, especially in the great hall, where three hundred revolutionaries have congregated this Sunday evening and are heatedly discussing the strategy to take in the next few hours.

  Pablo stops at the entrance to the hall. The room is full of smoke and tension in equal measure. Ascaso, standing on a table, is trying to moderate the ad hoc assembly, but everyone wants to speak at once and impose his own point of view. Some suspect that it was the police who sent the telegram, and they suggest that the expedition should not set off until word is received from Jover and Caparrós. It is not an outlandish suspicion, because with all the commotion the Spanish exiles in Paris are making, it’s quite likely that word of the conspiracy has reached the ears of Martínez Anido. And everyone knows that the best way to make a conspiracy fail is to provoke it yourself, and thus keep it under control. For this reason, some members, including Gíbanel and Pedro Orobón, propose sending a representative to Spain
to confirm the validity of the telegram. But the group in favor of caution is overwhelmingly in the minority, and they lose the debate for good when the persuasive Durruti takes Ascaso’s place at the table and pronounces the following words, surrounded by attentive silence:

  “Comrades, believe me, I understand that many of you have misgivings. How can we be absolutely certain that the thing is ready? How can we be sure that the telegrams—both the one we received today and the one that came Thursday—weren’t sent by the dictator’s henchmen? In my opinion, there’s only one way: we go to the border to see what’s going on with our own eyes. We’re not going to solve anything by staying here. What we do know for sure is that the conditions for carrying out a revolutionary action have been created. In Barcelona, the dictator has offended Catalan pride, and in doing so all he’s done is give us new allies. He’s taken the luxury of exiling intellectuals such as Unamuno and Soriano, sowing discontent among the middle class, and practicing the most shameless nepotism. The war in Morocco continues unabated, and our soldiers don’t want to go off to die in Africa. Do you not see in all of this, comrades, the positive signs calling us to revolution? Of course, there are also negatives, but isn’t it the shock between positive and negative that produces the spark? If anyone accuses me of adventurism, I say that there has never been a revolution that wasn’t led by adventurers! It’s possible that this time we are wrong, and we will pay with our lives, or end up with our bones in jail; it is possible that after this defeat there will be others, but what I know is that every time a situation like this arises, we take another step toward general revolt, and that our actions will never have been in vain.”

  Applause suddenly erupts throughout the hall, but Durruti still wants to add one more thing:

  “Make no mistake, friends: I’m not trying to convince anyone, because an act of this kind can only be the work of people who are already convinced of the fundamental principles that I have just spoken of here tonight.”

  After Durruti’s decisive speech, it is resolved to set out for the border immediately and wait for further developments. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, before eight o’clock, all those who are ready to enter Spain to start the revolution are to show up at the Gare Saint-Lazare bringing only the bare necessities. There they will be given a train ticket and, if possible, a bit of money. They will receive their weapons at the border to avoid problems during the trip. So two groups are formed, those who will go to Saint-Jean-de-Luz, and those who will go to Perpignan.

  “Everyone who wants to go to Perpignan, stand to the left, the others on the right,” Ascaso orders them, resuming his position on top of the table, “Those with no preference, stay in the center for now. Remember that knowledge of the terrain is important and so are whatever contacts you might have in the interior. Logically, Catalans should go to Perpignan and Basques and Navarrans to Saint-Jean-de-Luz.”

  The crowd begins dividing up, including some members of the Group of Thirty, such as Juan Riesgo, Luís Naveira, Gil Galar, and Bonifacio Manzanedo, who stand off to the right. Robinsón is also among those going to Saint-Jean-de-Luz, together with Anxo, the vegetarian they call “El Maestro.” In the group on the left, Pablo can identify Augustín Gíbanel and the brothers Orobón. Once the first distribution is made, the men in the center divide themselves evenly. Seeing that the movement’s main ideologues do not join either of the groups, someone asks:

  “And you fellows? Where are you going?”

  “Well,” Ascaso replies, “Some of us will stay here until tomorrow afternoon to handle the weapons purchase and to finish organizing the plans. We can’t go with the bulk of the expedition because the French police have records on us and we would jeopardize the success of the rebellion. But if it’s at all possible we’ll meet you at the border. In any case, tomorrow at the station we’ll finish putting the groups together. Surely there are people who couldn’t come or who didn’t hear about the assembly. Also, you’ll be adding reinforcements along the way, and in Saint-Jean-de-Luz and Perpignan they’ll be ready to welcome you. Comrades,” he says, raising his voice, “There’s no time to lose: in Spain, the Revolution is ready to explode and we can’t abandon our brothers now. Go spread the word, and everyone come to Gare Saint-Lazare tomorrow. Spain’s future is in our hands. ¡Viva la revolución!”

  “¡Viva!” the crowd shouts, some with more enthusiasm than others. Most start to leave the room, some thinking about how they will explain to their wives that tomorrow they are going to liberate Spain, others with the fire of revolution burning in their stomachs.

  Pablo stays to wait for Robinsón by the door, detachedly observing the faces of the men walking out. Many reflect the excitement of the moment, some have a distant gaze, some are engraved with a look of fear, still others just look tired. Judging by some of their expressions, Pablo figures that they will not show up at the station tomorrow, in others, on the contrary, he thinks he sees the sincere reflection of idealism about to be realized. When Robinsón sees Pablo by the door, he walks up to him accompanied by Teixidó.

  “Thanks for coming,” says the propaganda manager in a gravelly voice.

  “How many do you need?” Pablo cuts him off.

  “The ideal would be ten thousand. Five thousand for each group. But we can get by with half of that. I assume they’ve been able to print a few copies clandestinely in Spain.”

  “Fine then, I’ll try to reach ten thousand, but I can’t promise it. Tomorrow I’ll bring what I have to the station. If you’ll give me the text, I’ll go to La Fraternelle right now. But listen, try to cut the letterhead off during the trip, I don’t want old Faure to fire me. I’ll have enough work trying to explain the disappearance of a few thousand quartos …”

  “Consider it done,” Teixidó promises firmly. “Wait a minute, I’ll go get you the text right now,” and he walks toward the table Ascaso stood on, which is now surrounded by Durruti, Vivancos, Recasens, et al. in heated discussion.

  “In any case,” Pablo says to Robinsón, taking advantage of Teixidó’s absence, “I still think this is madness. Even worse if the main directors are staying here in Paris.”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything, Robin. I’m just saying that if things go awry, they’re not going to take the fall, but if the revolution succeeds, they’ll be the first to put on medals.”

  “You’re starting to think like the goddamned bourgeois, Pablito. You should come with us to get the rubbish out of your head.”

  Teixidó returns.

  “Here you go.”

  “It’s not very long,” Pablo notes as he looks over the text.

  “We prefer to keep it concise as Don Miguel always says: what’s good, put briefly—”

  “—is twice as good,” Robinsón completes his thought.

  “And what’s bad, if it’s long, is twice as expensive,” adds Pablo, quoting old Faure. “Well I guess I’ll be seeing you in a few hours at the train station.”

  “Thank you very much,” Teixidó extends his hand. “For Spain.”

  “For freedom,” Pablo prefers.

  And he leaves the place accompanied by Robinsón. Kropotkin is waiting under the stairs, jealously guarding the old Clément Luxe bicycle. After crossing the frigid Parisian night, they get back to the printing house.

  “To be honest, I don’t know who exploits me more, my boss or the proletariat,” Pablo remarks sarcastically as he restarts the machines.

  “Surely both do equally,” Robinsón laughs, “but one does it to bring out the worst in you and the other the best.”

  “Right, but one puts food on my table and the other costs me sleep.”

  “Fine, you’ve got me there,” Robinsón concedes, “but you could think of it another way: one buys your soul while the other gives you the gift of friendship.”

  “You ever thought of becoming a poet?” Pablo asks with a smirk as he lines up type in the tray. “But then again, what good is friendsh
ip if I don’t have a soul?”

  And so they go on philosophizing for a long while, Robinsón running the old Minerva and Pablo operating the Albatross. When three in the morning rolls around, they decide to call it a day. They have about eight thousand copies, and they are exhausted.

  “How are we going to carry all of these?” asks Robinsón.

  “In your shirt pocket if you like,” Pablo replies, going down into the cellar. He returns with two big sacks, and they put the posters inside. The bags weigh twenty pounds each. “You want to come rest a bit before you start your revolution?”

  “Of course. What time does your train leave for Marly?”

  “Nine o’clock. I’ll help you carry the bags to Gare Saint-Lazare and then I’ll go the Gare du Nord to catch my train.”

  They tie the two bags together, drape them on the bicycle like saddlebags, and walk the bike home. They barely open their mouths on the walk. Events have sped up so much in these last few hours that the time for farewell has caught them unprepared. It doesn’t occur to them that these could be the last few moments they will ever spend with each other; they are too tired for such bleak thoughts. In any case, fate still has a surprise in store for them.

  When they reach home, they haul the heavy sacks up the seventy steps to Pablo’s hovel. It is about four o’clock now, and they’ll still be able to sleep for two or three hours before they have to get up to go to Saint-Lazare. This time it is Robinsón who has trouble falling asleep. Pablo, on the other hand, is out like a light, and he dreams. He dreams about someone he hasn’t seen in a long time, someone for whom he was ready to lay down his life: he dreams of Angela, whom he has long been trying to forget. But everyone knows that the desire to forget someone just engraves them deeper in the memory. Angela is wearing a night gown of blinding white, a whiteness contrasting with the brown of her skin. She is on a lonely road in the middle of a flat terrain that spreads out in all directions, with no sign of life anywhere. Suddenly a man appears out of thin air wearing a linen suit and a Panama hat. He grabs her waist and throws her over his shoulder. Angela screams and pounds on his back with her fists, but the man doesn’t say a word, just starts running away down the road. Then Angela lifts her head and stretches her arms out to someone: “Come help, come help,” she says again and again, as her face changes into that of María, Pablo’s mother, and then to the face of Julia, his dear sister, and then to that of little Teresa, his ten-year-old niece, before finally turning back into Angela’s face, still shouting “Come help, come help!” though no one goes to rescue her. Only when he hears his name does Pablo realize that he is the one they are calling: