A Darker Night

by P J Brooke

  Max looked out of his window at the steady rain. The weather forecast predicted there would be rain at least until the beginning of next week.

  He pottered in the kitchen while a pot of coffee bubbled on the stove, then enjoyed a bacon sandwich. He put on his oldest pair of jeans, a faded blue shirt, a gardening sweater, and his mountain jacket. He didn’t bother to brush his hair. But he still looked … well … respectable.

  Conference registration began at ten. The bus from Gran Vía went straight to the conference venue, a dilapidated trade union centre that had seen better days. Outside the main door, there were the usual groups of left-wing paper sellers, but the Brits outshouted all comers.

  ‘The Only Solution is Revolution,’ yelled one vendor.

  Another seller was trying to deafen his rival. ‘Organize, Educate, Agitate.’

  Max bought a paper from both of them, just for old times’ sake, and then went inside. Bookstalls lined the entrance hall and banners were draped everywhere. The noise and bustle were overwhelming. There was a strong smell of marijuana competing with the odour of cheap disinfectant. He hadn’t been to anything like this since his student days. It was going to be a real nostalgia trip. At the registration desk he picked up a form, and started to fill it in.

  ‘Organization, contact telephone number and address.’

  He could hardly write in ‘Policía Nacional’. He finally put down ‘Friends of the Earth’. That should be pretty neutral. And, after giving it some thought, he put the address of his old flat and invented a mobile number. He then joined the long queue waiting to pay and go in. Max found himself in the midst of a group of Trotskyites, arguing furiously among themselves whether the Bolivarian Revolution in Venezuela was a socialist revolution or not. Max smiled. Who cared? All the people of Venezuela wanted were jobs, decent housing, education, and a health system that worked. Just like everybody else.

  Max paid his money, handed in his form, picked up a conference pack and went down the stairs to the makeshift canteen. He bought a coffee and managed to find a seat at a long table. The air was filled with cigarette smoke. He gazed around. There were a lot of beards and long hair. And a few dogs. But left-wing conferences sure as hell attracted pretty girls. Max opened his conference pack. Some of the speakers looked interesting, but he’d better stick to his task.

  He saw Roberto Belén in the queue for coffee, wearing a suit and tie. What sort of conference did he think he was going to? Then he spotted Francisco Gómez coming into the canteen. Fortunately, Francisco was too engrossed in a conversation with a pretty girl to notice him.

  As Francisco and his friend were ordering their coffee, Max slid into another room where more groups had their wares on display. People were milling around, talking animatedly, examining books, pamphlets, posters, trinkets from cooperatives in the Developing World, badges, ecologically sound clothes, and display boards. Groups of people were sitting on the floor, discussing what resolutions to put at the plenary sessions. The political parties were the best organized. They had clearly worked out their resolutions in advance. Democratic Centralism ensured they would all be singing from the same song sheet.

  Max sat on the floor by a column and took out his conference programme. Francisco was on in the afternoon, a keynote speaker. Catalina Maya’s workshop was in room 4, starting soon.

  Room 4 was at the end of a dingy corridor littered with fag ends. The space was already crowded and all the chairs were taken, mostly by pretty girls. Max made himself comfortable on the worn linoleum floor. There were very few men in the room. Max felt even more conspicuous as various girls eyed him up. Then Catalina Maya hobbled into the room on crutches, with Padre Gerardo at her side.

  The young priest introduced Catalina, talked briefly about the work of the women’s refuge in Almanjáyar, and then handed over the microphone. She was a striking woman, perhaps in her early thirties, slim, with long black hair piled on top of her head and fierce expressive eyes. But her face was lined by suffering.

  Catalina Maya spoke without notes, talking about her own personal experience, about the need to break the veil of silence surrounding domestic violence in Spain, and how women had to organize and support each other to get out of violent relationships.

  Max was moved by the speech. It came from her heart, from her own experience. Questions flowed back and forth; finally a consensus was reached on putting a resolution to the conference. As Max stood up to leave, Padre Gerardo noticed him.

  ‘El Señor Romero. What a surprise! I never expected to see you here. Let me introduce you to Catalina.’

  Max tried not to look embarrassed.

  ‘Catalina,’ said the priest, ‘this is the police officer I mentioned, the one looking for Mauricio and Gregorio.’

  Catalina turned to look Max full in the face. ‘Ah, Gregorio and Mauricio.’

  ‘Señora. Do you have a few minutes?’

  ‘Sure. I need something to drink. We can talk over coffee.’

  ‘That was an excellent presentation,’ said Max.

  ‘Gracias, but will you police ever take domestic violence seriously? I doubt it.’

  ‘We’re improving.’

  ‘Very slowly. Muchas gracias, padre,’ she said to the priest.

  ‘It’s the least I can do. I’ll see you later.’

  She bent awkwardly to pick up her bag from the floor.

  ‘Here, let me take that,’ said Max. ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘Gracias. But no, I have to get used to managing on my own.’

  She hobbled along the corridor on her crutches, Max walking slowly beside her.

  ‘Did you have an accident?’

  ‘Yes. I got knocked off my moped on Friday. I was only discharged from the hospital yesterday.’

  So that was why he hadn’t been able to contact her.

  Max and Catalina made their way slowly down to the canteen, took their coffees, and sat at a small table in a quiet corner. She gave him another searching look.

  ‘I won’t ask what you’re doing here,’ she said. ‘It’s not hard to guess.’

  Max mumbled something.

  ‘Padre Gerardo has already told me about Paco, and that you were looking for Mauricio and Gregorio. Paco had a bad heart, you know.’

  ‘We know,’ said Max. ‘At this stage we’re keeping an open mind on Paco’s death, but I’m just checking a couple of things because someone painted Asesino on Paco’s wall.’

  ‘Well, there are many people who feel that five years in jail wasn’t much for taking a life.’

  ‘Is that a personal or professional opinion?’

  ‘Both. Lucía was my best friend, you know. We had such dreams. We were going to be famous flamenco dancers. Paco ruined that for me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sí,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘When I was fifteen, he took me joyriding. He lost control of the car, smashed into a tree, and I broke my leg in two places.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. And Lucía?’

  ‘Lucía was doing well until she got pregnant with Angelita. She picked things up again when she lost the baby fat, and she was getting good bookings when Paco thought she was going to leave him. They had a row in the street outside the Echavira club and my brother knifed her.’

  ‘And Gregorio and Mauricio Espinosa?’

  ‘They’re bad news. Very bad news.’

  ‘Would they kill Paco?’

  ‘They threatened to, many times.’

  ‘Would you be willing to testify that they had threatened your brother?’

  ‘Sorry, but I can’t risk making a statement, you know, in case anything got back to Mauricio.’

  ‘Of course. But if you think of anything else, give me a call on this number.’ Max handed over his business card.

  Catalina stood up awkwardly. ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting someone for lunch.’

  Max waited a few minutes, then walked back to the bookstalls lining the entrance hall. Catalina was
already there, resting on her crutches. Max spotted a book of political cartoons which looked interesting. He decided to buy it. As the bookstall holder fumbled with change, Francisco Gómez came down the stairs, crossed the hall to Catalina and hugged her. Francisco took a small red purse out of his pocket. Catalina dropped it into her shoulder bag, then they left together.

  Max slipped out of the building, walked to a nearby newspaper kiosk and bought a copy of Granada Hoy. The story ‘Another Massacre on the Coast’ filled the front page. A Marbella hairdresser and his seven-year-old son had been shot when the salon was sprayed with bullets. The assassin’s target, a French Algerian mafia boss, had escaped unharmed.

  In the nearest restaurant, Max ordered the menú del día, and a carafe of wine. As he waited for his food, he checked the conference programme. Francisco was on in the main auditorium at six o’clock. The afternoon sessions all looked a bit heavy. He finally decided to go to the debate on ‘The Coming Economic Crisis’. When lunch arrived, portions were substantial, and the carafe was larger than he expected.

  At 4 p.m., Max went back to the conference, feeling rather full. The first speaker was a Professor from the Sorbonne. For an hour, the professor droned on: the world faced a crisis of over-production, fuelled by the ending of the ties between commodity production and finance, resulting in a massive wave of short-term financial speculation that would end in a crisis, first in the financial system and then in the production system. Max nodded off. He awoke with a start. Everyone was clapping. The debate had ended.

  Somewhat groggily, Max went to the canteen and ordered a double black coffee. He put his hand into the pocket of his mountain jacket. No wallet. He went through all his pockets. No wallet.

  ‘Joder!’ he said aloud. ‘I’ve been robbed. Mierda.’

  The woman on the till was not sympathetic.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Max. ‘I’ve been robbed. My wallet’s gone. I’ve no money.’

  ‘That’s not my problem,’ said the woman. ‘No money, no coffee. That’s the rule.’

  The girl right behind him in the queue stepped up.

  ‘Here, let me pay,’ she said. ‘It’s only a euro.’

  Max turned. The girl was small and very attractive, with an impish face, curly dark cropped hair, and disconcertingly green eyes. She was maybe in her late twenties, maybe younger. Max read the slogan on her T-shirt: ‘So Many Men. So Little Time.’

  ‘Muchas gracias,’ said Max. ‘I’m dying for a coffee.’

  They took their coffees and sat together at the end of a long refectory table.

  ‘Were you really robbed?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Silly me. I had a glass of wine too many at lunch, and nodded off during the talk.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not surprised. It was pretty boring. Are you coming tomorrow?’

  ‘Sí.’

  She picked up her bag, fished out a small wallet, and handed over a fifty-euro note.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take this. You can pay me back tomorrow.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly do that,’ protested Max.

  ‘Why not? You’ll need the cash to buy me a drink later.’

  Max smiled. ‘In that case, okay.’

  ‘I’m Margarita,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Max,’ he replied. He looked at his watch. ‘I’m off to the plenary session with Francisco Gómez. It’s starting soon.’

  ‘I’m going as well. He’s great.’

  They made their way towards the main hall. A tall guy with cropped grey hair, wearing jeans and a white linen shirt, came towards them. It was Carlos. Margarita gave him a big hug.

  ‘Max, hombre. Didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Day off,’ mumbled Max.

  Carlos grinned at Margarita. ‘I didn’t know you two knew each other.’

  ‘We don’t. We’ve just met,’ said Max.

  ‘Are you coming to Francisco’s talk?’ asked Margarita.

  ‘No. I have to drive a couple of folk to the station. It’ll be good, though.’

  The main auditorium was packed, but Max and Margarita managed to find two seats together at the back.

  ‘You’re a friend of Carlos, then?’ said Max.

  ‘Sí. I’m really fond of him. He helped me out when I was in a bit of a fix. And you?’

  ‘We’re in the same walking group. He really knows the paths around Granada.’

  ‘I might come along one day. Sounds fun.’

  Francisco came on to loud cheers from part of the audience. He paced up and down the platform like a caged tiger, black curls gleaming in the sunlight. His speech was a call to arms. The world was facing wars, famine and an unprecedented ecological disaster unless action was taken now. ‘Think globally. Act locally,’ he kept repeating. ‘The time for talking is over. We must act, and act now.’

  Then he homed in on Granada. ‘The speculators are turning Granada into a concrete jungle. And now the authorities are about to approve the completion of the Granada ring road. They are going to build thousands of new houses in El Fargue, and turn the hill of San Miguel Alto into a giant car park for a new hotel. And why? To make the speculators rich.’

  At the end of each example, he yelled, ‘Paramos la violencia urbanística! Stop the concrete!’ The audience yelled back at him, ‘Basta ya! Stop it!’ And he replied, ‘Sí, se puede. Yes, we can.’

  Francisco paused dramatically, and waited for silence.

  ‘And now the Church, supported by the Alcalde, has agreed to sell the monastery of Jesús del Valle and its lands to the speculators. Within five years, the whole valley will be covered in concrete. So what are we going to do? Paramos. We will stop it. Sí, se puede.’

  The audience yelled back, ‘Paramos. We will stop it.’

  ‘The time for talking is over. The time for action is now. I propose the following resolutions. One: to assemble on Monday in Plaza Nueva at five in the afternoon to stage a non-violent mass demonstration against the destruction of Jesús del Valle.’

  The resolution obtained support from speaker after speaker. Margarita looked pleased. ‘I think we’re going to win the vote,’ she whispered to Max.

  Then a bespectacled young man with a posh Granadino accent sprang to his feet. Heads turned towards him. ‘Chair, I wish to propose an amendment. Namely, to delete the words “non-violent”.’

  Margarita leaped out of her seat. ‘Chair! Chair!’ she yelled. ‘This amendment is out of order. It hasn’t been put in writing.’

  The Chair coughed, and said apologetically, ‘Actually it was. I received it at the last minute but I must allow the amendment to be put to a vote.’

  Margarita plumped back down. ‘It’s been rigged. Manipulative bastards,’ she hissed.

  The Chair then asked the proposer of the amendment, David Costa, to speak in favour. Max started making notes.

  David Costa began: ‘This amendment is not an amendment in favour of violence. On the contrary, it is an amendment in favour of the right to self-defence. It is an amendment which says we must be prepared for the worst. It would be madness not to come prepared. Look what happened in Genoa.’

  He finally concluded: ‘After thirty-six years of the Franco dictatorship, are our Spanish police really any different to those butchers the Italians call cops? We must come prepared, with scarves in case the cops use tear gas, and to defend ourselves with arms if they attack us with batons. Vote for this amendment. Vote for your own safety.’

  There were loud cheers. The ultra left were well prepared. One after another, confident young guys sprang to the defence of the amendment: tough anarchists from Italy and Greece, Maoists from Germany, Trotskyites from France and Britain, the Anarchist Black Angels from Granada.

  The Chair finally called for the seconders of both the original resolution and the amendment to sum up.

  Catalina Maya hobbled on to the platform on her crutches to second the original resolution, and spoke as before, from the heart.

  ‘Non-violence,’ she conclude
d, ‘means non-violence. To go to a demonstration with weapons means those weapons will be used. People will be hurt, many of them innocent bystanders. I urge you to vote for the resolution, and reject the amendment.’

  It was a powerful speech, the more so as it came from a victim of violence. Then to a loud roar of approval from his supporters, a young man called Alejandro Castro was called to the platform to sum up the case for the amendment. He began quietly, welcoming the European tribes in their own languages. He then switched to Spanish, but presented his slogans in French, Italian, German and English.

  ‘We are not advocating violence,’ he argued. ‘But just as we support the right to resist unjust laws, so we must preserve the right to defend ourselves against police violence. And believe me, we will be in danger. It’s not just the police we have to worry about. Maybe the Fascist Youth will attack us. For those of us who have grandparents and relatives who fought against Franco, against Hitler, against Mussolini, would we have said to them “Don’t resist – be non-violent”? And do you think Franco, Hitler and Mussolini would have respected us for not resisting? Never again. Never again another Genoa. Let us never forget our comrade who was shot dead by the police there. Never forget our injured comrades. We must always defend ourselves.’

  His supporters began chanting their slogans, their voices becoming louder and louder.

  ‘That’s bloody unfair,’ said Max to Margarita. ‘The Granada police aren’t fascist goons.’

  Margarita raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘The buggers are going to win, aren’t they?’ said Max.

  They did, but narrowly.

  The session ended in loud cheers from the winning side. The Chair then called Francisco Gómez to put forward his second resolution. Francisco came forward, subdued by defeat.

  ‘Resolution Two: to join the Easter Procession of the Virgin of All Beings outside the church of Cristo El Benefactor in Almanjáyar, and march to the church of San Miguel Alto in the Albayzín.’

  There were noises of surprise and murmurings of protest in the hall.