The Anarchist Who Shared My Name

by PABLO MARTÍN SÁNCHEZ

  On the platform in the station, a group of about a dozen anarchists is waiting to welcome them discreetly, and the gesture seems to boost morale. Among the welcoming committee is the unmissable giant from Argentina, wearing a beret appropriate to these latitudes.

  “Leandro!” Robinsón and Pablo shout in unison, as they fall into a three-way hug, Kropotkin circling frantically. The Argentine looks at Pablo as if wanting to say he knew Pablo would end up coming along.

  “Che, I thought you guys would never get here. These French trains are slower than a gaucho dismounting from his horse.”

  They leave the station together with the rest of the group. They are a motley crew, an army of ghosts moving through the night. The leader of the welcoming committee appears to be a man in his forties, with a gray mustache and hair, bright eyes, and an intelligent gaze. He goes by the name of Julián Santillán. Some say he used to serve in the Civil Guard and that they threw him out for his rebelliousness, and with the advent of the dictatorship he had to go into exile in France. It is he who leads the group toward Place de Louis XIV, conversing with the leaders of the expedition, all except Robinsón, who is bringing up the rear with Pablo and Leandro.

  “We thought there’d be more of you,” says the former civil guardsman. “We heard talk of thousands of revolutionaries.”

  “Well,” Naveira responds, “remember that more than half went to Perpignan, and that more comrades will be arriving on the next few trains. The idea is to try to round up volunteers at the border and wait for the signal from Spain to cross over. And how many men do you have here?”

  “Not many, to tell the truth. A few from Bayonne, another handful from Biarritz, a few from Bordeaux, and the group of us from Saint-Jean-de-Luz who came to meet you. In all, about thirty, I’d say.”

  “Some is better than none,” murmurs Juan Riesgo, unable to hide his disappointment.

  “Have you thought of any place we could stay while we wait for the right time to cross the border?” asks Bonifacio Manzanedo.

  “The local comrades can host three or four people per house. The rest will have to look out for themselves, maybe stay at an inn. There are several cheap, decent hostels near the central plaza.”

  At the opposite end of the group, lagging a bit behind, Pablo, Leandro, and Robinsón are catching up on the latest events, while Kropotkin runs around depositing turds all over the village.

  “So old Dubois replaced me with a Japanese fella, huh? Well, it’s his loss!” murmurs Leandro, spitting on the ground and furiously stomping the sputum.

  “I hear that business is way up since then,” Robinsón jokes, and Pablo takes the baton:

  “Plus, you can finally see through the glasses.”

  The Argentine giant grabs them both by the collars:

  “See if I don’t make you bastards sleep in a ditch tonight!”

  Kropotkin yips and tries to bite Leandro’s leg, but the big man doesn’t even flinch. Someone in the group tells them to keep their voices down and shut up that damn dog. They finally reach the plaza and Santillán goes into a restaurant. A few seconds later, he pokes his head out and tells them to come inside, that there’s room for everyone if they squeeze together. Indeed, the place is enormous. It reminds Pablo a bit of the bistro in Marly-les-Valenciennes where Madame De Bruyn makes such delicious hochepots. The owner, a Biscayan from Guernica with a certain resemblance to Charlot, sets about serving them beer and wine, while an uproar of pots and pans erupts in the kitchen to answer the massive wave of hunger that has just rolled in. The revolutionaries spread out among the tables and start to warm their spirits and stomachs. A little group of vegetarians led by El Maestro sits apart from the others next to the door, and quickly becomes the butt of jokes among the general population, who view their table covered in salads and fruit juices with incredulity as they stuff their faces with roast beef. The leaders of the mission from Paris have convened at a table in the rear, where they are exchanging opinions with their comrades from Saint-Jean-de-Luz.

  “So when do you think the thing is going to be ready?” asks Julián Santillán, the former civil guardsman. “We can’t stay here very long without arousing suspicions.”

  “We have to wait until we receive the signal,” warns Juan Riesgo, whose prudence contradicts his name. “Tomorrow we’ll make contact with the leaders of the Paris Committee so they can inform us how things are going there and how it’s been for the Perpignan contingent. In the meantime, all we can do is keep waiting and stay calm.”

  “Hey, Santillán,” Robinsón interrupts, “why isn’t Max with you guys?”

  “Max who?”

  “Max Hernández, the one they call El Señorito, the fellow in charge of recruiting in this area.”

  “Oh, him. The truth is, it’s been days since anyone’s seen him, the last time was when he appeared with a couple of Army officers, who confirmed that the regiments of Bilbao, Zaragoza, Lérida, and Barcelona are ready to rebel. Some say he went to Paris to speak with Rodrigo Soriano and Unamuno.”

  “And why in God’s name did he want to talk to those two dreamers?” interjects Gil Galar, pushing his Romantic-poet hair from his eyes.

  “I don’t know, man,” argues Santillán, “they’re only the top leaders of the movement—”

  “Who the fuck told you that?” Gil Galar erupts, standing up from the table, his eyes—the only lively part of his corpse-like face—bloodshot and bulging.

  “Whoa, there, laddie boy,” responds the ex-guardsman, cool as a cucumber. “Do us a favor, sit down and calm down. I heard Max say that the movement was organized from Paris by Soriano, Unamuno, Ortega, and Blasco Ibáñez.”

  “That must have been a diversion,” interjects Naveira, conciliatory. “Maybe Max thought there was an informant listening. Or maybe he thought they could recruit more volunteers by name-dropping those pencil pushers. After all, that was his job, right?”

  “Yes,” Robinsón avers, “but the end doesn’t always justify the means, Luís. You can’t trick people into joining the revolution. We have enough hassles with the traps the cops lay for us, we don’t need to go lying to each other as well.”

  They carry on these discussions until the Charlot of Guernica tosses them out into the street. In the middle of the central square, deserted at this hour, there is a kiosk. It is an old hexagonal gazebo open on all six sides where the village orchestra plays on Sundays. The revolutionaries huddle in it to finish getting organized. More than half find lodging with comrades who live in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. The rest of them head toward the flophouses in the blocks surrounding the plaza, to spend the few francs Massoni gave them when they boarded the train. Before going their separate ways, they agree to meet at lunchtime tomorrow right back here at Place de Louis XIV, when they will be joined by comrades from nearby villages who are ready to go liberate Spain.

  Pablo and Robinsón are among those who will enjoy free lodging, as Leandro has assured them that at “his house” they would be honored guests and could sleep like angels. But the Argentine’s enigmatic smile has failed to convince the two friends.

  “Do we dare ask where you’re taking us?” Pablo inquires as they start to leave the village.

  “Pas de souci, mon ami,” Leandro reassures him with his horselike smile. “We’re almost there.”

  And indeed, after a couple of minutes Leandro stops before a cemetery gate and, bowing, invites them to enter:

  “S’il vous plaît,” he says, and leads the way nonchalantly.

  IX

  (1908)

  “ANGELA, OPEN THE DOOR, FOR THE love of God!”

  The voice of Don Diego Gómez sounded metallic and menacing, and the chair blocking the door seemed about to succumb under the strain. Pablo and Angela looked at each other in terror and hurried to dress.

  “Let’s go!” shouted the girl.

  But it was too late. The chair went flying as the door blasted open like the mouth of a raging dinosaur, framing the distorted figure of the lieu
tenant colonel, still in shirtsleeves. Seeing them there together, he froze, turning into a pillar of salt, barely a tremble on his blanched face. Behind him appeared Angela’s cousin Rodrigo Martín, dressed in street clothing.

  “You see, Uncle? See what this sewer rat is capable of?” he shouted, glaring at Pablo with an explosive mixture of hatred, jealousy, and disdain. He had let his hair grow long, and a little mustache underlined his nose.

  “Shut up!” ordered Don Diego, without moving his lips, like a perfect ventriloquist, “And do your duty.”

  Rodrigo entered the room, took off his kid glove and tossed it at Pablo’s feet, in a gesture that everyone understood.

  “No!” shouted Angela, her eyes wide with fright.

  “Don’t worry,” Pablo tried to calm her with tragic aplomb. “If this is the price we have to pay for freedom, we’ll pay it willingly.”

  And he went to pick up Rodrigo’s glove.

  “No!” Angela shouted again, stepping on it with her bare foot.

  “He doesn’t have a choice, my dear,” said Don Diego Gómez, not changing his hieratic posture. “He can accept the challenge, or he can leave this room feet-first.”

  “I hate you!” Angela shouted, leaping on her father and striking his chest with her fists.

  The lieutenant colonel didn’t even blink. If anything, his pallor increased, as did his emaciated appearance. When he grew weary of the blows, he grabbed his daughter by the waist, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her out of the room.

  “No, Pablo, nooooo!” Angela shouted, relentlessly striking her father’s back.

  But there was no choice.

  “We consider this a very serious offense,” said Rodrigo Martín, defiantly. “For the dueling weapon we choose pistols. Tomorrow at the break of dawn I will be waiting for you at the Fountain of the Wolf.”

  “Understood,” said Pablo.

  And he bent down to pick up the glove.

  DUELS WERE FORBIDDEN IN TURN-OF-THE-CENTURY Spain, but the authorities tended to turn a blind eye, an indication of the atavistic respect they held for certain traditions. The Penal Code could prohibit the challenge, but a few dozen duels still took place here and there in the country every year. The president of the government could call it the “outdated institution of affairs of honor,” but hotheaded gentlemen kept right on using pistols to cleanse their names. Eminent minds could demand harsher punishments for the seconds, but they continued to get off scot-free. Some people even suggested prohibiting newspapers from reporting on duels, arguing that most duelists were fighting pour la galerie and that if there were no press to spread word of their prowess, most of them would give up trying to pull their honor out of a hat. Obviously, it was more often than not just empty posturing, ending with shots fired in the air and reconciliation feasts; however, sometimes, in rare cases, the bullet found its mark, and in such cases public opinion would get up in arms. This was precisely what had taken place in the recent cases of the young Marquis de Pickman and the journalist Juan Pedro Barcelona, who ended up paying with their lives for a fit of unbridled honor, the first at the hands of Captain Paredes and the second to a bullet fired early by the director of the Catholic seminary El Evangelio, Don Benigno Varela, who paid poor homage to his forename. The response to this absurd bloodshed was the creation of the Liga Nacional Antiduelista, founded by prominent individuals who aimed to do away with the archaic affairs of honor. Among them, significantly, were several politicians, military officers, nobles, and reporters—precisely the sorts of people who had the strongest tendency to resolve their differences at twenty paces.

  But these were not the duels that came to Pablo’s mind as he left the Gómez house, but rather another that had taken place a century before, starring a young French mathematician. “Have I told you the story of Évariste Galois?” he thought he heard his father’s voice say.

  But Don Julián was dead, and now it was Pablo who was about to gamble his life. At the age of eighteen, he had never even fired a damned pistol, because he hadn’t yet been called up for military service. The anarchists of Salamanca had also failed to train him in the use of a firearm, most likely because they didn’t have any. In fact, his closest brush with a Browning semiautomatic was in Madrid on the night before the royal wedding, when Vicente Holgado lifted his hand to his side, smelling danger. And now his life depended on his dexterity with a revolver! How absurd, thought Pablo, how utterly ridiculous. But he could see no other way out of the imbroglio. What was he supposed to do, leave Angela in the lurch? Let Don Diego have his way? Sacrifice his love to save his skin? No, no way. Especially after that night, after the nox mirabilis. After all, he had come to Béjar ready to face the whole Spanish navy, and fate was now pitting him against a single adversary, so what did he have to fear? Of course, he would have preferred not to have to go to such an extreme, but what else could he do? This military family adhered to a code of honor that allowed no choice but to pick up the thrown glove. For them, there was no other possible solution: he had entered their house and dishonored their daughter. Now he could only hope that everything would be resolved by a shot in the air; or in the worst case, that the blood spilled would not be his own.

  With these somber thoughts, Pablo left the village via the Carretera de Candelario. He needed to clear his head and stretch his muscles. The little road snaked uphill, while the sun struggled to find a path between the mountaintops and the low clouds. Dew glowed pearly on the grass along the road. The blackbirds were warming up their voices in the woods. A small carriage passed alongside him and stopped.

  “Are you going to Candelario, young sir?” asked the friendly local. Pablo heard the words, but did not understand the question: his mind was far away.

  “What’s that you say?”

  “I say if you want a ride, I’ll take you to Candelario.”

  Pablo shook his head and stepped off the road. He had no desire to talk to anyone. He wandered into the woods, lost in his thoughts. He crossed rivers thinking of Angela, climbed hillsides thinking of his father, skirted ravines thinking of Angela, blazed trails thinking of his mother, clambered over a fallen tree thinking of Angela, rested a while thinking of his sister, stumbled a bit thinking about Rodrigo, caught his balance thinking about Angela, slipped and fell thinking about Don Diego, got up thinking about Angela, got covered in mud thinking about Évariste Galois, lost his way thinking about Angela. And when he wanted to go back to Béjar, he was completely disoriented. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the daylight was already waning. He started walking northward, guiding himself by the moss on the trees as his father had taught him, but the inevitable night caught up with him. He weighed the possibility of starting a fire and sleeping outdoors, but he settled for sitting on a rock and rolling a cigarette in the dark. Just as he was about to light the match, he saw something glowing in the distance. He stood up and walked toward the glowing dot, which grew larger and larger as he approached. Finally, he could make out a small stone structure, perhaps a woodsman’s hut. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and there was light inside. He walked to the door, but he didn’t have time to knock, because just as he raised his fist he heard a voice saying:

  “Come in, young man, the door is open.”

  Pablo turned, surprised, but saw no one. Surely the voice had come from inside the hut. Timidly, he pushed on the door and found himself face-to-face with a bent old woman attending to a boiling pot in the fireplace; only then did he realize that he had gone a whole day without a bite of food. The woman looked a shambles, wrinkles competing with warts for the conquest of her face.

  “Sit down, please,” said the old woman, dragging out the syllables, “I was just about to take up my dinner.”

  “I don’t mean to bother you,” Pablo apologized. “I lost my way in the woods, and I haven’t eaten in hours.”

  “I know. That’s why I invited you to sit down,” said the old woman, using the informal address as though his entry into her abode was a
ll the permission she needed.

  “Thank you very much,” was all that Pablo replied, as he sat down on a stump that served as a chair. The hut was illuminated by an infinitude of candles, populating the corners like trembling fireflies. The walls, covered with shelves, offered a spectacle of flasks, jars, and bottles filled with salts, ointments, concoctions, and medicinal herbs with fantastic names like “lungwort,” “bone knit,” and “maidenhair.” Here and there, an unexpected object interrupted the series of containers: a stuffed owl, a horseshoe, a boar’s tusk, a wax doll, an astrolabe, an anatomy book, and even what looked like a bust of Pliny, missing its left ear. In a corner, beneath a cot, various feline eyes observed the interloper.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” asked the old woman after taking the pot from the fire.

  Pablo shook his head, and his guts tightened in anticipation of the repast.

  “And yet, something brought you to Béjar, am I wrong?”

  Pablo nodded as he watched his plate fill with a thick, brownish stew dotted with garbanzo beans.

  “And I’ll bet that something goes by a woman’s name.”

  “How did you know?” Pablo asked, lifting the spoonful to his lips.

  “You don’t have to be an oracle to see that much, young man, it’s written all over your face. All the same, they do call me Anita, ‘the Fortune-teller.’”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can see the future.”

  Pablo’s spoon halted its course halfway between his plate and his mouth.

  “How far into the future?” he asked.

  “As far as you like. A day, a year, a whole lifetime if need be. All you have to do is show me your palm.”

  Pablo dropped his spoon and looked at his hands.