by Serge Pey
I knew every title and every poem of the back-to-front library. I understood that a poem could be composed solely of titles. If I faltered in my recitations, it was because speaking implied combining all the titles in the world. In a poem, every verse contained a whole book.
One morning, waving at his library, the professor told me: “Now you may read.”
The professor was truly crazy. His library really held only one book: the book of all the poems he had composed from his titles. That day I began slowly to read inside the books. The library was all white. The light slid over the whiteness of the books.
Outside it was snowing. I gazed at the tracks left by a dog walking down the road as though they were the sorts for a press that no one had yet invented.
The Treasure of the Spanish Civil War
THE LETTER HAD been slipped beneath the house’s inevitable geranium on the windowsill. It was old María – María who repaired mattresses – who had put it there. The stamp was upside down, naturally: the sign that it was one of ours who had addressed the envelope in violet ink, in big letters with curly upstrokes and downstrokes. Pua read out his own name as if he were encountering it for the first time:
Pua Moreno
La Cadena Street
(back of courtyard next to the mattresser)
San Subra District
Pua immediately recognized the handwriting of the Comandante.
What does he want with me? he wondered. I haven’t seen him in ten years. I heard he was net-fishing sardines near the border.
So great was Pua’s respect for the written word that he jacketed all his books with newsprint. On each spine he wrote the title and the author’s name with pen and ink. Then, at the base, in blue, using his Sergent-Major fountain pen, he would systematically add “Freedom Library.” He gave the Penal Code and cookbooks exactly the same treatment. For Pua any actual book was an agent of liberation.
Pua slipped the envelope inside the cover of an Esperanto dictionary.
But let me tell you about Pua.
* * *
—
When Pua left the concentration camp he moved quite automatically to the San Subra neighborhood along the river, where the Gypsies and horse breeders lived.
Pua rarely received letters.
Opening a letter right away was beyond him, and it could often take him several days of reflection.
A letter was a rare thing indeed.
Pua pulled up the old straw-bottomed chair and poured himself a glass of wine. He sat down with his elbows on the waxed tabletop and gazed at the letter, once more noting the upside-down stamp.
It was the Comandante…
It was definitely him, he told himself for the second time. For three days Pua did not open the envelope and merely contemplated it. He went out to the local cafés, dawdled in restaurants till very late and got drunk twice in the Bar des Amidonniers before at last, on the Sunday, going to the public baths for his weekly shower. He yelled insults against the dictator, smashed a chair, broke open some mailboxes, unchained a dog, and made a little money by sticking banknotes against the walls of certain bars with his forehead. On the third day, but only after he was properly dressed and shaved, he opened the letter.
He performed this ritual on the terrace of a café that he never frequented in a neighborhood across the river where he never usually set foot.
What did the Comandante want?
In red letters, just a few words:
I know the place. We are about to begin digging. Meet in Argelès on the anniversary of Caraquemada’s death. Let the others know…. I will be waiting for you. Everyone should bring a pail and shovel. That should suffice.
Libertarian greetings.
Pua was moved to learn that the Comandante remembered the death of Caraquemada, shot down by the French police not far from the border. The letter was unsigned. But it was from him. From the Comandante.
The “place” in question was the location where some veterans of the Durruti Column had hidden part of the Republic’s gold which the anarchists had appropriated from the Communists. It had been agreed to let twenty years elapse before acting. The Comandante had kept his word.
Somewhat overwhelmed by the weight of this news, which had to be kept secret at all costs, Pua went directly to Manolo’s bar. There, he knew, he would find the others: Chucho and Hilero, sitting at their chessboard between the frying pan and the pale spring sunlight filtering through the café’s curtains.
“Hola! This is it! We’re going to dig the baby up!” said Pua in a low voice.
“Baby” was the code word they used for the treasure. Chucho and Hilero interrupted their game and started to read the missive. There was no doubting it: this was the Comandante’s hand.
The news spread like wildfire within the small circle of anarchists by the river and everyone set about preparing for the expedition.
* * *
—
In the compartment they were all there: Puig’s son, Rico and old María, the chess players, Denis, Vásquez, and the Schoolmaster, as well as the two compañeros from the library. You should have been there at the station that morning to see this unlikely crew waiting for their train, then crowding together in silence on the wooden seats of third class.
A good many of the passengers on the train headed for the sea were old Durritistas. María had brought two large bags of provisions. Everyone had crammed their pack with wine and dry sausage and everyone carried a shovel wrapped in newspaper by their side like a soldier’s rifle. The ticket inspector’s suspicions must not be aroused: they all assumed that he would be in bed with the police. Loyal to the adage that “he who steals an egg will steal a cow,” they were convinced that every official was a potential turnkey or informer.
Their journey, unbelievably long, was punctuated by chess games, snoring, frequent meals, and reasonable questions about the purpose of the mission.
“Do you think we’ll find it?” asked Rico.
The Schoolmaster, whose words had weight, replied amid silence: “The information is solid. The Comandante has been on the spot for ten years. He had the secret location from the lips of old Liberto himself – the very one who dug the hole.”
After this pronouncement in the Schoolmaster’s authoritative tone the issue never came up again. It was as though any further doubts would somehow jinx the operation. The Schoolmaster, who owed this sobriquet to having trained organizers at the union, had handed out a few copies of L’Espoir, a paper that everyone took but nobody read – the news was always too bad; and today, as ever, the only subject was betrayals and bad turns of events.
No one slept, but at daybreak everyone had reached the rocks bordering the beach. Several hundred meters away the Comandante suddenly came into view. While waiting for us he had already begun digging at the place they call Le Racou. Then, without a word, and without saluting him as we would have done at the Front, we all set to work, our eyes brimming with tears.
From time to time I cast a timid glance at our “hero” digging in the sand. He conveyed strength, and I was drawn to him. At the same time he frightened me a little, for once I had overheard my father burst out laughing as he told how the Comandante had killed the village priest and hung his body from the bell tower. When he smiled, I couldn’t help seeing a hanged man at the end of a rope coming out of his mouth.
As our shovels delved in the sand, the ingots of the Spanish Republic awaiting us built up hopes for a temporary abolition of wage labor. It was Christmas Eve by the seaside in that spring of 1958. Everyone deserves an out-of-season Christmas once in a while.
After an hour the beach was full of holes. It was almost as though thousands of giant moles had taken up residence.
At noon the Comandante lit a fire. This was the signal for everyone to open their packs and dismantle a bicycle abandoned by history: it
was an easy matter to improvise grills because the beach was right next to the dump.
Once old cardboard boxes, broken fruit crates and driftwood had been gathered it was time to get out the cutlets and boutifarre. The men took care of the meat while the women made salad with tomatoes and olives and onions. Water bottles and porrones were passed around. We took it easy. We even kissed the Comandante; he was already completely drunk, but we forgave him.
Pua noticed flashes up on the hillside. We wondered whether we were being watched. Pua had set up an effective lookout system: whenever an intruder approached the entrance to the beach, he whistled between two fingers, at which everyone began to run around and play soccer. The only problem was that we had no ball. The players mimicked a match, and sometimes as many as three goalies would leap for an invisible ball at the water’s edge.
In those days, however, there were no tourists and beaches were often quite deserted.
Pua resolved to bring a ball next time, suspecting intuitively that the recovery of the treasure might take a long time.
We took our siesta. We waited for late afternoon to resume our digging, and overnight we rolled ourselves up in blankets. Which brought back devilishly sharp memories for all those who had been imprisoned in the camp. There was talk of the war, and of the dead – and of the living, who were more dead than the dead…
The next morning we started work early, for it was Sunday and there was no time to lose. The entire day until sundown was spent digging holes. We found old barbed wire, seashells, bottles, remnants of nets, a great deal of wood, but no ingots.
A moment came, however, when the whole gang downed tools and hope flamed in everyone’s eyes: Amelino’s shovel had struck a crate. Ceremoniously, since it was his role, the Comandante went down into the hole and with a screwdriver popped the clasps on the box. But all that we found were old pistols probably buried during the war. That crate was nevertheless a bearer of hope: at least we had found something. The pistols showed that we were surely on the right track. We decided to leave them where they were. They might serve later. The crate was covered with sand once more.
We arranged to meet again at the same place at the end of the next week, and we swore ourselves to secrecy. Everyone went back to Toulouse with their dreams and with their lips sealed.
But, as we all know, no secret is ever well kept, and in the San Subra neighborhood this particular “secret” traveled like a lit fuse to a powder keg. On the following Saturday, when the whole team arrived with a conspiratorial air, the beach was already thronged with people. From a distance they appeared to be tourists, but as we got closer we realized that they were “diggers.”
We recognized neighbors, friends, cousins. The Comandante moved forward and, after swallowing hard, silently organized digging by his following. Because he, after all, had the map, and the others did not.
That was obvious, moreover: some people were even delving by the side of the road. It was a crazy scene, crazier than any beach had ever witnessed – with the possible exception of the Normandy landings. The beach of Argelès was being turned into a gigantic mole burrow. Piles of sand surrounded the holes and a small mountain had begun to grow near Le Racou. Larger and larger groups were invading the beach. Even children were to be seen busy with little buckets and spades.
A band of Gypsies from Perpignan set up camp on the fringe of the work area, and Pua, who no longer needed to serve as lookout, still retained the role of organizer of football matches. On that day, by noon, he was mustering volunteers for a knock-out competition.
Everyone came together in joyful communion, and the whole beach fraternized when it was time to eat. Siesta time suggested nothing so much as a slumbering battlefield. The sleep of the just was filled with dreams of being pirates on holiday at the seaside. So ended the second week.
But what was bound to happen happened. The next Saturday, the municipal authorities, in great alarm over the demented excavation of their beach, sent in the local police force.
The police force was a constable nicknamed Manivelle, or Handle, because, as was the custom also in nearby villages, his drum was beaten not with a pair of sticks but rather by means of an articulated arm mounted by the skin. By turning a handle, he was able to produce one of the finest drum rolls on the coast. He was a Communist, of course, just like the municipality itself.
After his third drum roll, Manivelle, adorned by his permanent straw hat, made a series of announcements: the program of the open-air picture show, namely Robin Hood with Errol Flynn and a Tarzan film with Johnny Weissmuller; a meeting at the fishermen’s cooperative; the imminent visit of the butcher’s van to a site behind the church; a sardana appleg; and the opening of subscriptions for a mammoth snail bake in two weeks’ time.
Everyone listened religiously to this recitation. Then, though it was not his custom, Manivelle caused his drum to sound once more. The locals present all thought that someone must have died. They all held their breath as they waited for the bad news, but then Manivelle, after the inescapable words “Notice to the public,” delivered himself of this salvo:
THE MUNICIPAL COUNCIL DECREES THAT IT IS FORBIDDEN TO DIG HOLES ON THE BEACH AND THAT ALL HOLES ALREADY DUG MUST WITHOUT EXCEPTION BE IMMEDIATELY FILLED IN. ANYONE CONTRAVENING THIS ORDER WILL BE SUBJECT TO A FINE.
To which the Comandante responded in a loud voice: “If I lay my hands on the hijo de puta who informed I’ll bury him alive. Loose tongues always lose us the Revolution. People can’t even keep a simple secret.”
The fact is that the Comandante, despite his anarchist credentials, was an admirer of Blanqui with the rock-solid conviction that the triumph of liberty depended on a conspiracy against the State. He had even dreamt of tunneling under the Vatican and blowing up the Sistine Chapel. Nobody dared look him in the eye because we all knew him to be capable of the best and the worst. So we stopped digging. The beach was empty in no time.
It was noon. The scene was as bleak as the aftermath of a bombing. You might have thought that World War III had broken out on the beach at Argelès-sur-Mer. We all felt a little bit ashamed. We did not know if this was because we had created a landscape of devastation on one of France’s most beautiful strands or because we had given away a secret. But many of us, clearly contrite, hung our heads.
Nevertheless, the original San Subra contingent did not give up. It was our First Attack Unit, namely Pua, who proposed a new plan to the Comandante. Some time before, he had managed to purloin a tent from the American Army: an immense marabout as big as a small-circus tent. Guy ropes and pegs were procured as well as a truck to haul it all. The Comandante settled for a new strategy: he applied to the mayor’s office for permission to pitch the marquee, claiming that we were workers wishing to hold a meeting to plan for the twentieth anniversary of the concentration camp.
I don’t know if the mayor believed us, but he gave us our head. Maybe he thought that he could lay his hands on the treasure once we had found it? Be that as it may, we erected the marabout at a fresh site, behind Le Racou.
As we dug in the middle of the massive tent, discreetly and in silence, we disposed of the sand by spreading it thinly across the beach. The mole had become the last animal in all creation to be found on the beach of Argelès. World War III was over. Now it was more like The Great Escape with Steve McQueen that was underway. It was Saturday.
On Sunday a rude surprise was in store for us. The Comandante had disappeared. Someone told us that they had seen him leave with shovel and pick. Officially, he was ill, and had needed to be transported to Varsovie Hospital in Toulouse with a stomach ailment.
In face of this latest bad luck that had befallen us, Pua, First Attack Unit, became the Comandante’s legitimate successor, and as such proceeded to fill in the hole beneath the tent.
We held a meeting. We took the marabout down. We began singing. We got drunk, and everyone slept in the truck that had brough
t us.
The next day we had news of the Comandante. He was doing better. We were glad to hear it.
Apparently the treasure map with which he had been entrusted was misleading. The Comandante let us know that he now believed that we had chosen the wrong beach, and that Saint-Cyprien was where we should dig. So we got ready to move in secret from one beach to another. In any case there were too many people at Argelès, including the Gypsies encamped there and searching for the treasure without making their intentions clear.
The difference between a public secret and a private one is that the first is whispered in the ear while the second is shouted from the rooftops.
A few holes were dug at Saint-Cyprien but this new work site was soon abandoned. To this day tales of the treasure hunt are told among survivors of the Spanish War and their children. Some people talk of shifting terrain, others of the intervention of the police, of fighting with chance arrivals wanting to join the hunt, of the anti-Franco snail bakes, of sardana festivals which taught some how to keep time, of sausage-eating contests, of an attack on the town hall, of the Comandante letting himself be buried in the hole, and of his ghost wandering on stormy nights….
Pua knew that legend trumps reality, for legend is possibility that reality cannot realize: the way to the infinity of the possible. The path to a treasure is often the treasure itself. Pua believed that what we call the Way is never more than a hesitation. But the most important thing is the memory of the Way, and how we transmit that memory or that way. That is what he used to say, and he was right.
Hope is always a memory of the past. Above his bed, instead of a crucifix, Pua had nailed up a battered pair of shoes. Whenever doubt threatened his hopes, he would contemplate those old black shoes, which were like the wings of a crow about to fly out through the window. Then he would tell himself, over and over: “Do not go where the road may lead. Go where there is no road, and leave tracks.”