Quince

by David Rees

  The one good piece of news, that Cristina and José had left Rojo before the enemy arrived, did not lift Pedro’s spirits. He was acutely depressed: lethargic, and for much of the time incapable of being roused out of his gloomy thoughts. While action had still been possible he’d shrugged off defeats and difficulties as temporary hitches, the death of comrades as the luck of war. Now each death, each execution, was a knife in the heart, worse than the imposition of fascist values and conduct on anarchist-socialist Zahara. Everything he and the committee had stood for was overturned. The working classes were cowed and bullied. Money and property-owning had been reintroduced, of course. Prices were high and wages were cut; and the homes of people who were merely suspected of Republican sympathies were confiscated.

  Stephen was not so despondent. He hadn’t been wounded ― not even sustained a scratch ― in any of the fighting in which he’d been involved; and he still thought of his role in the war as a bit of a lark. He didn’t mind hiding in the cathedral ― he was with Pedro ― but he thought that even if he was not in there, nothing very serious would happen to him. He was English. The British government was officially neutral, and unofficially leaned towards Franco. He did not know that the Japanese guitarist had been shot; Tomás hadn’t mentioned it: there were so many deaths. He often asked himself how long they would have to remain in hiding. Weeks, months? It was very dangerous, Tomás said, for them to try and go anywhere else at the moment; Pedro was the most wanted man in Zahara. It was believed that the anarchist generalissimo was still in the city; even Queipo said it would be uncharacteristic of the Lynx to run away ― he’d fight till the last bullet was left A considerable sum of money was offered for information on Pedro’s whereabouts. The obvious person to question was Tomás, but the new authorities were not aware of his friendship with the Badajoz family ― they would have imagined that only acute hostility could exist between a bishop and the anarchist son of a socialist mayor.

  They would have to stay where they were, Tomás said, until interest in Pedro subsided. When they did leave, then, best disguise would be in uniforms of Queipo’s army, he went on, though he had no idea as yet of how to procure such things. The thought was anathema to Pedro ― the hateful uniform of the enemy! ― but he conceded that it made sense. They should also disguise themselves, Tomás suggested, by growing beards and moustaches. Pedro had no difficulty ―within a week his growth was luxuriant, Stephen liked it very much ― it was sexy. But he loathed his own: it itched; it was ridiculous ― it merely looked as if he hadn’t bothered to use a razor since yesterday. He returned to being clean-shaven.

  Their plan was to avoid enemy soldiers as much as possible, and cross the lines into the Republic near Jaén. They discussed from time to time how they would do this, but they came to no conclusions. They didn’t, in fact, talk a great deal. There was always the danger ― a remote danger ― that someone in the cathedral might hear them, and Pedro was so depressed he preferred to be silent There was a tone in his voice that warned Stephen when a conversation was becoming irritable. It happened all too often. Stephen felt hurt; he wanted to share, to alleviate the suffering. Pedro spent hours just lying on the mattress, smoking cigarettes and thinking his own thoughts. He looked like a dangerous, caged-up animal: the eyes glaring, the beard and moustache concealing his features. But they made love frequently ― there wasn’t much else to do. It was invariably at Pedro’s behest: he would avoid Stephen’s kisses, make him wait until he wanted it. And it was sex without tenderness, as if Stephenwas only a hole to fill. Sometimes it was so rough Stephen almost cried with the pain of it. When Pedro said, ‘I’d like to strap you to a pillar and flog the shit out of you,’ he understood: all Pedro could feel at the moment was anger and defeat; he had so little room to love himself he had nothing to give.

  ‘What would you use?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘My leather belt.’

  There’d be too much noise.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for that, would you let me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you enjoy it?’

  ‘No.’

  Pedro smiled. ‘I ought to feel contempt for such an attitude. But I don’t. I feel… a kind of thanks.’

  ‘Do you still love me?’

  ‘I need you … I’ll admit to that.’

  Sex, desultory conversations, books: that was how they passed the time. Pedro didn’t read much, but Stephen got through the literature Tomás provided ― the whole of Middlemarch and some George Borrow and Chesterton, all these in Spanish; the Borrow and the Chesterton in translations by President Azaña. For Stephen there were two other diversions: the cathedral itself, and the services held in it. Pedro wasn’t interested. To him, the cathedral was an anachronism, and Mass superstitious mumbo-jumbo.

  ‘But the singing is beautiful.’ Stephen said.

  It was. The new regime had been quick to restore the cathedral to its proper purposes. The drums of petrol, the flour, and the other goods were taken away and sold. The refugees who had lived in the building had fled; the mess they left was cleaned up by anarchist prisoners who were compelled, every so often, to kneel and pray. The floor was scrubbed and the woodwork polished. When it was done, the prisoners were taken outside and shot. The priests returned, and the sacristans and the other minor officials resumed their duties. Mass was said or sung at various hours from seven a.m. till midday, Tomás himself singing the first to be celebrated in Zahara for over a year. Congregations were much larger than before the war, and on Sundays the cathedral was packed. In Fascist Spain it was wise to be seen in a church ― to appear to be religious. The authorities considered absence as subversive, ‘Red.’

  The cathedral choir was re-formed, and the vacancies in its membership ―those who had died or left the city ― were soon filled. It sang at nearly all the Sunday services and at important weekday Masses. Music by Palestrina, Byrd and Victoria ― the sixteenth century was now the vogue ― floated up to where Stephen was listening; it was a cultural bonanza, and it was free! On Sundays there were organ recitals, and the choir performed works that were not exclusively Renaissance― Mozart anthems and, on one occasion (Cristina would have approved, Stephen thought), the Fauré Requiem. He loved all this, in particular the way the cathedral provided a perfect setting and a magnificent sounding-box for the music.

  It was annoying, however, to be confined to such a restricted view of the architecture. It wasn’t safe to stroll around and indulge in aesthetic experiences, though, paradoxically, the least dangerous time was when the cathedral was busy ―when Mass was being said ― because the people were in one fixed spot in their pews. Between services there were sightseers who could wander about anywhere, even climb the staircases, though no one ever did so. The dome and the columns supporting it, the pattern of tiles on the floor far beneath, the curtailed vistas into the transepts and the choir ― these were the limits of Stephen’s world, and he got to know them very well; the dazzle of the whitewashed walls, the millions of dust specks dancing in the shafts of light that shone through the windows of the dome, the pools of gold the sun painted on pillars and arches.

  He didn’t believe in God any more than Pedro did. but he couldn’t understand why his lover’s lack of religious faith should lead to his rejecting all the works of Christianity. Pedro admired Arab buildings ― Zahara s tower, the Alhambra. Shouldn’t a Christian cathedral or a Mozart mass be just as valid an experience, Stephen said to himself, as a mosque, an ancient fort? But Pedro had little aesthetic sense: he was a man of action. His enthusiasm for the Moors was for their speed and daring ― they had conquered Spain more quickly than Franco was doing it ― and because they were not Catholic. Like most Spanish men of his time, he was indifferent to all religions ― except Catholicism. Catholicism he, and they, hated: it was the ally of the oppressor ― rich, powerful, corrupt. Stephen was aware of these feelings, but the god Pedro, he thought, should be uninfluenced by the myths of his time and place.

  One evening they m
ade love while the choir sang Oculi omnium in te sperant, Domine ― the eyes of us all have hope in Thee, O Lord. It hurt. But the pain mixed with the pleasure Stephen found a mystical experience; years later he could recall his orgasm on that occasion: fantastic. Religious, he would say to himself; apocalyptic. Pedro would have dismissed such words as sentimental garbage: a fuck was a fuck was a fuck.

  Some hours later, Tomás, nervous and excited, came to see them: he was carrying two bundles of clothes the uniforms, shirts, shoes, belts, socks, and weapons of a couple of Nationalist lieutenants. ‘You’ll doubtless ask how I got hold of them,’ he said. ‘At great personal risk is the answer. And at great risk to a woman, the madam of a brothel … Yes … it’s not only religion that’s back in business; prostitution is also flourishing. I paid her ― she’s known as La Pasionaria: not Dolores Ibarruri! ― a very large quantity of new pesetas: for which she agreed to steal the clothes of two of her customers. She had to wait some days for men similar to you two in build. This evening a pair of young officers arrived; while they were busy with the girls … so much so they had no idea what else was going on, and La Pasionaria had in any case pulled the fight fuses out so they couldn’t see … she said there was a power cut … their clothes disappeared. Behold!’ He threw the bundles onto the floor. ‘May God forgive me, and her, and them.’

  ‘What happened to the soldiers?’ Pedro asked, as he opened one of the bundles and surveyed the contents.

  ‘I don’t know exactly; I wasn’t there … the uniforms were brought to me. There’ll be a great fuss; there probably has been already. The police searching the house … La Pasionaria taken in for questioning. I expect they’ll let her go, with a caution … they can’t prove it was her, or any of the girls; it might have been one of the customers. Nevertheless … I hope she keeps her mouth shut I can’t imagine what would happen if I was implicated.’

  ‘You’d be shot.’ Pedro said.

  Tomás’s conjectures about what had occurred were naive. La Pasionaria had decided not to spell out to him her role in the actual scenario; it would be foolish. After the clothes were sneaked out of the bedrooms she waited a few minutes (it did not seem right to cheat the lieutenants, vigorous, good-looking lads in their early twenties, of the last orgasms they would ever enjoy); then, with the help of the girls who had induced those pleasures, she gagged, bound and blindfolded them. A sharp knife held at their throats made the task relatively easy. A couple of anarchists ―there were still a few left in Zahara who were willing to strike at the enemy ― got rid of them: they were smuggled out of the city and thrown, still alive, three hundred feet down a disused mineshaft.

  ‘How do I look?’ Stephen asked. He was wearing the clothes of the smaller lieutenant.

  ‘Hideous!’ Pedro said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘About the same as usual ― a handsome, sexy young Englishman. But dressed in the uniform of a Spanish fascist. I could spit!’

  ‘You look fine,’ Tomás said. ‘Just fine.’

  ‘And I? Am I still Pedro Badajoz?’

  ‘Not obviously.’

  ‘You look gorgeous.’ Stephen said.

  ‘What will you do?’ Tomás asked. ‘Where will you go?

  ‘We’ll cross the lines and make for Jaén.’

  Pedro was looking through the pockets of his new jacket. He found a great deal of money, a letter, two photographs ― one of a pretty girl, the other of what was presumably the man’s parents, sisters and brothers ― and a railway warrant, a one-way ticket to Cádiz. The letter showed that the man, Martin Alvarez, came from Cádiz ― it was from his father, who was writing to say how much he was looking forward to his son’s two weeks’ leave at home: and Mother wasn’t well; her asthma was worse. This rail ticket is for tonight!’ Pedro said. ‘We could go to Cádiz without any problem whatsoever!’

  ‘It’s the wrong direction,’ Stephen answered. ‘Miles from the Republic! What on earth would we do there?’

  ‘Make our way back by sea.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Or we could go to La Línea and over the frontier into Gibraltar.’

  ‘Is it open?’ Stephen asked. ‘Do the British allow Spanish refugees to cross?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s a crazy idea!’

  ‘It’s much less of a risk than wandering round the countryside, not being sure who we can trust … with no information about where to cross the lines… Do you have a similar warrant in your jacket?’

  Stephen looked. He was Santiago Badía, also due to go on leave, and there was money and a railway ticket to the same destination.

  That settles it,’ Pedro said. ‘Cádiz.’

  Tomás shook hands with them. ‘May God go with you. Will we ever meet again?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Goodbye, Tomás,’ Stephen said. ‘How can we thank you enough?’

  ‘You’d have done precisely the same were you in my shoes and I in yours. Give my love to Cristina and José.’

  Pedro looked at his watch. ‘If we go now, we can stroll down to the station and have five minutes to spare before the train leaves.’ He was the man of action once more; the listlessness and the depression had gone.

  The theft of the uniforms was Tomás’s last, and most curious, act of charity. Events were on the point of overtaking him; the man for all seasons, Vicar of Bray, reed that bowed before every storm, had bowed once too often. It was impossible at this time to serve one master, then another, and get away with it ― there was no middle road, as General Araquistain had said to Miguel Goicoechea. The new administration had been told by more than one informer that Tomás suffered no persecution from the anarchists, that he actively helped them, had been the secretary to their committee. Even to help the Republic passively was a crime in Franco’s Spain, punishable by death. People’s words were the only evidence against the bishop, as someone had been wise enough to burn the committee’s minutes and other documents relating to its activities before the fascists took the Casa del Pueblo. But words would suffice.

  Tomás, having said goodbye to Pedro and Stephen, returned to his study, unaware that the following day the authorities were planning to arrest him. He wrote a number of cards headed BADAJOZ, PEDRO, AND FAITH, ESTEBAN, EL INGLÉS, which told the story of their sojourn in the cathedral, the removal of the uniforms from the brothel, and the departure for Cadiz. Here, and on scores of other cards, was the written evidence the fascists could employ to condemn him. That they were unable to do so, were even unable to arrest him, was the result of operations by what was left of the other extreme, the anarchists.

  Those anarchists who thought that Tomás, during General Araquistain’s brief moments of power, did not speak out against the torture and the executions could not settle this grudge while Pedro was in control. But the Lynx had disappeared, or had been killed, and the bishop had donned with alacrity his clerical robes once more; he was to all intents and purposes (as they viewed it) a tool of the new administration. It was time to exact revenge. Tomás, in front of the fire in his study and writing a card about the cathedral ― how it was cleaned up after the refugees had gone, the date when religious services began again etcetera ― nearly jumped out of his skin when the door was thrown open and five men and a boy burst into the room

  One of them pointed a gun at him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We want you, Bishop,’

  ‘For crimes against the people.’

  ‘You fascist cocksucker.’

  ‘What is he writing?’ asked a fourth man, who came up to the desk and looked at the card. ‘I can’t read. Someone else read it aloud.’

  ‘Be quiet, Jesús.’ said the first man. ‘What he’s writing doesn’t matter. Tear it up.’

  ‘Don’t do that!’ Tomás cried, but Jesús did as he was told.

  The second man wandered over to the filing cabinet. There’s thousands of cards in here, Angel! Thousands and thousands! A
nd they’ve all got words on!’

  Angel said, ‘What’s it all about, Bishop? What’s written on them?’

  Tomás’s tongue moved over his lips, and he spoke tremulously. He had never been so frightened in all his life. ‘One of these days,’ he said, ‘I intend to write a history of Zahara. The cards are my notes ― everything I’ve ever learned about the city. When the Romans were here, the Arabs, when Isabella and Ferdinand reconquered it, the nineteenth century … and of course what’s happened since this war started. General Araquistain … Pedro Badajoz … Queipo de Llano. I’ve recorded in detail all the splendid things that were done by the committee! You’ll find nothing you could possibly object to!’

  ‘I don’t care two fucks,’ Angel said, ‘whether anyone would object. What I do object to is that Araquistain murdered my brothers and you didn’t even raise your voice! All of us here lost relatives when the army took over. Jesús’s father was shot, and both Liberio’s parents, Inocencio’s grandfather, Rafael’s sister, and the whole of Antonio’s uncle’s family. And what were you doing, Bishop?’ He began to shout. ‘Nothing!! Where was the power of the Church, eh? On the side of the general, that’s where it was, you cunt!’

  ‘I did speak out! I got dismissed from my post for doing so!’

  What shall we do with the cards, Angel?’ Jesús asked.

  ‘Burn them.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Tomás yelled.

  Angel smiled. ‘You’d be surprised at what we can do, you arsehole! Inocencio, Rafael… help Jesús. Stuff them into the fire. Antonio, go outside and get some paraffin.’