“But no Bernhardt.”
“No.” Aurelio took the glass.
“And nothing else?”
Aurelio drank.
Hoffner said, “So now they come looking for you and Gabriel?”
Aurelio finished the glass and held it out for another. Hoffner refilled it.
“They’ve made their point,” Aurelio said, “but who knows? The CNT will take credit. This is what they were going to do anyway. They like statements like this—a man tossed in a car, beaten, a bullet to the neck, no trial, no discussion. It keeps the socialists and Communists thinking we anarchists can be trusted. That we can take care of our own loose cannons. Whoever did this knew how to play it.” He drank. “Leos is moving guns?”
Hoffner appreciated how easily Aurelio got to it. He recapped the bottle. “He’s trying to.”
“And your son is helping?”
Hoffner felt Mila’s eyes on him. He ignored them. “No. That’s not why he’s here.”
“A great many people will be coming to Spain for one reason and leaving for another. You know your son that well?”
Hoffner pulled out a cigarette and set the pack on the table. “I need to go south.” He lit up.
“That requires papers.”
“Then it’s lucky I’m sharing a drink with you.”
Aurelio leaned forward, took one of the cigarettes, and waited for a light. He sat back through a stream of smoke. “You know the terrain?”
“No.”
“Then it’s suicide.”
Mila said, “That’s why he’ll be needing two sets of papers.”
The table was suddenly quiet. Even the man with the scar stopped crying. Piera let out an audible breath and Hoffner turned to her. She was staring across at Aurelio.
The little man returned her gaze and then looked at Hoffner. “What is she saying?”
Hoffner was still fixed on her. “I have no idea.”
She turned to Hoffner. “Do you know the terrain?”
There was something so familiar in the gaze. “Stop it,” he said.
“Stop what?”
“This. Whatever you think you’re doing.”
Piera let out another long breath, and Mila turned her head to him. “You knew it would be this the moment he walked in the house,” she said. “The moment you heard him speak.”
Piera was reluctant to answer. “No,” he said. “That’s not true.”
“Then with the boy,” she said. “When I told you about the boy. You knew then.”
Again Piera tried to hold himself. “Yes,” he said at last. “It doesn’t mean a thing. You kill yourself if you do this.”
“I kill myself if I don’t.”
Hoffner was done catching up. He had been there for everything they were talking about, and yet he hadn’t the slightest idea what any of it meant.
“Knew what?” he said. Mila continued to look at her father and Hoffner repeated, “Knew what?”
She turned. The eyes were now completely unknowable.
“You love your son,” she said. “I love my brother. Gardenyes could get you a pass out of Barcelona, and you’d need someone to show you the way. That would get me to Zaragoza.”
Aurelio said, “Zaragoza isn’t the way you get to Teruel.”
“It is now,” she said, as she continued to stare at Hoffner.
He was expecting a look of victory, the conceit a woman holds in reserve for those moments beyond a man’s control, but there was nothing so cunning in the eyes. Mila’s gaze carried only its strength of purpose.
“Who’s to say I’ll take you?” he said.
“Who’s to say there are any other volunteers?”
Hoffner wanted more—stifled hope, desperation—but she gave him none. He would have given none either, and it was why he said to Aurelio, “You can get us two sets?”
Aurelio was weighing something behind the eyes. “Yes.”
“Two sets to get us through,” Hoffner said, “and another two to square us with the Nationalists. You can do that?”
Aurelio said, “I think you’ll want to avoid the Nationalists.”
“Can you do it?”
Again Aurelio stared at Hoffner. It seemed a very long time before he slowly nodded.
“Good,” said Hoffner. He looked at Mila. “I’m assuming you have a gun.”
* * *
The details proved surprisingly simple. It was just a matter of finding space on a truck, stuffing a canvas bag with the necessities—Hoffner’s empty satchel and suitcase remained at Piera’s—and then meeting up with Aurelio.
The choice of meeting spot, however, was another matter. At a little before six, the message came through from one of Gardenyes’s—now Aurelio’s—minions that he wanted them out in the Plaza d’España within half an hour. And not just on the plaza. He wanted them at the far side, along the westernmost gate of the Arenas bullring. To Hoffner this seemed slightly bizarre; to Mila it made perfect sense. The man had a car waiting downstairs.
They drove in dead silence, probably a good thing, since Hoffner was forced to keep his palm planted firmly on the ceiling to make sure he remained inside the car: Why speak and tempt even a moment’s break in the man’s concentration? Mila sat between them in the front seat, her shoulders bouncing back and forth, her expression devoid of concern. Evidently this was the way one drove through Barcelona—corners taken to the sound of screeching wheels, pedestrians nimble and happy to skip out of the way no matter how narrow the streets. That the sun was perched on the horizon so as to blind them made the prospect of hitting someone—or being hit—slightly less problematic: there might be a thud or a bump, but at least it would come as a complete surprise.
In the rare moments of manageable speed, Mila tried to point out some of the more interesting spots along the way: a palace with some exotic ironwork that looked like a fat scorpion climbing between the two front archways; a music hall with scars still dug into the stone from a decades-old anarchist bomb; a movie house with a Spanish-print poster for Hop-a-long Cassidy—extended through July 24—although Hoffner was guessing that the “yarn with a kick like a loco steer” might be waiting quite some time for its next showing. After that it was a straight shot up the Paralelo, across the plaza, and over to the arena.
The place had the look of any number of killing pits, two vast coliseum tiers behind countless arches, although these were more Moorish than Roman. The red brick was another distinguishing mark, as was the strange little dome atop the main entrance tower, a red cupola more fitting for a mosque than a bullring. Large posters from the most recent combats were still plastered to the front walls. The most daring was of a torero, Marcial Lalanda, painfully suave and a far cry from the six-shooting Señor Hop-a-long. Lalanda was staring down the back of a bull, his haunches raised high—Lalanda’s, not the bull’s—in a pose of ultimate courage: the motionless pase de la firma. According to the lettering, the fight had been to benefit the city’s newspapers in a “sumptuous manifestation of artistry.” If Lalanda’s hindquarters were any indication, the crowd had not gone home disappointed.
Hoffner slammed the car door shut, and the man sped off in a grinding of tires on gravel. Mila was already heading across to the entrance gate, where a long tunnel led down into the ring. Standing inside and in half shadow was Aurelio, with a rifle over his back. He stepped out.
“Did you sleep?” he said.
“No,” said Hoffner, as he drew up.
“That was stupid.”
Aurelio led them down the tunnel—the ground was now packed earth and rock—through torn papers and pieces of metal wire strewn across. The papers were snatches from recent programs and posters, but the wire was a complete mystery. Odder still were the tire tracks that crisscrossed everything, and the walls—chipped stone and brickwork—that seemed to be sweating with the smell of gasoline. The light at the end was a dull orange, filled with aimless clouds of grit and dust rising from the ring.
Everything came cle
ar as the three emerged. It was cars everywhere, in every shape, size, and state of disrepair. They were parked at odd angles, up against the wooden fencing or in klatches across the ring. A few were burned out, most stripped of their tires. The glare off the windscreens made it necessary to bring a hand up. They were Spanish, German, American, and even one of those Dutch Spykers with its ludicrously heart-shaped grille. This particular one had lost its front axle and looked as if it were kneeling in prayer or, better yet, waiting for a swift kick to the backside; even it understood this new Barcelona. Elsewhere a group of about ten saloons stood in an oval, lost in some frozen rally race, eternally waiting for the one just ahead to step on the gas.
These were the remnants of a now extinct race—the bourgeoisie—branded and on display. The markings were simple, the letters CNT-FAI meant to codify and classify for future generations.
Hoffner said, “I’m guessing we can have our pick.”
Aurelio moved them across the ring as he spoke. “You bring one of these back to life,” he said, “it’s yours for the taking.”
They passed a man who was rummaging through the open bonnet of an old Mercedes. Half the engine parts lay in piles in the dust, another piece of metal tubing finding its way onto the heap as the man tossed it to the side.
Hoffner said, “He has no idea what he’s doing, does he?”
“With the car?” said Aurelio. “Of course not. To melt it down and make it into something that fires a bullet? That he knows how to do.”
Hoffner looked back and saw the man toss out another large piece of something. “Clever,” he said.
“Very—if he can find some bullets.”
Aurelio nodded them over to one of the openings in the fencing and ushered them through. The light was now in the form of hanging lamps along the vast scaffolding maze underneath the seats. Deeper in, Hoffner saw two enormous water tanks with a truck that looked almost roadworthy nestled in between. Aurelio led them over, and the smell of gasoline became suffocating.
“Best station in the city,” said Aurelio. “The cemetery out there might give the boys something to play with, but it’s the gas that’s the real prize.” He shouted over to the truck. “You’re loaded?”
“Loaded,” a voice shouted back.
“How many jars?”
“Six.” The voice became Gabriel’s as he stepped out from behind the truck. “Enough to get us out and back.”
He looked exhausted. Worse, his left ear was bandaged, and the right eye and cheek were swollen. The gashes were deep and well-placed: something metal, thought Hoffner, maybe even brass. Whoever had done this had planned to take their time killing him.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Gabriel said. Even with the swelling, he still had a cigarette tacked onto his lip. The thick mustache was all but swallowing it.
“Good to hear. Same men who took Gardenyes?”
Gabriel ignored the question and stepped over for Mila’s bag. “Doctor.” The hand was also black and blue, and two of the fingernails had been torn off.
Mila said, “I should have a look.”
“At what?” Gabriel took her bag and headed to the back. “I’ve had a bit of a sore throat, but aside from that…”
Hoffner followed Gabriel as Aurelio helped Mila into the cab. “You’re lucky to be alive,” Hoffner said.
Gabriel reached the back and pulled up the flap. “Not so much luck.” He tossed the bag in.
Hoffner drew up next to him and saw the two dead bodies laid out against the jars of gasoline. Both were dressed in the usual getup—suspenders, trousers, neckerchiefs—except these had small bullet holes just below the right eyes. From the tiny shards of glass, one of them had worn eyeglasses. The back of the heads had been completely torn off.
Gabriel said, “The Nazis are going to have to send in better than these if they think they’re going to help the generals win the thing. I mean, how clever do you have to be to remove a gun from its holster before you try to torture and beat a man to death? Guns stay outside the room. It’s the first rule, isn’t it?”
Hoffner saw the stacks of rifles, rolls of bandages, and packages of food strewn haphazardly throughout the hold. He looked back at the Germans. “They’re quick learners,” he said.
“That’s a pity.”
These two couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Hoffner noticed the Bifora wristwatch on one of the arms and thought, They really have no idea what they’re doing, do they?
Hoffner said, “You took the gun when one of them leaned in to pull out the fingernails. Lots of screaming and distraction.” He didn’t need to turn to sense Gabriel’s appreciation.
“Yes,” Gabriel said.
“You shoot well with your left hand.”
“Close range. Not that difficult.”
“And you keep them as souvenirs?”
Gabriel took hold of Hoffner’s bag and tossed it in. “Better if they’re missing. A dead body gets replaced by someone not as good at dying. Let them wonder for a few days where their friends have gotten to.” He let go of the flap and started back to the cab.
Hoffner asked, “They wanted to know if you’d found Bernhardt?”
Gabriel stopped at the door and took the handle. He looked back. “Have I?”
“Not yet,” said Hoffner, “but you will.”
* * *
It was three hours later, and a hundred kilometers of safe Republican territory behind them, when Gabriel shut off the headlights.
The sun was long gone, but he continued to drive. Not that there had been much to see since the outskirts of the city. It was fields and hills and, somewhere in the distance, mountains, but even with a full moon there was little chance of seeing any of it as more than vague shadows. Towns had come and gone as pockets of light, with the occasional barking of a dog to remind them of lives being plotted and endured along the way. They had passed two checkpoints. The men at each had gone through their papers; the dead Germans had been admired and forgotten.
After that, Hoffner, Mila, and Gabriel had settled into an easy silence. The constant jolts to the chassis, and the grinding of the gears, continued to beat out a comforting rhythm.
Hoffner stared out through the windscreen. It was a road incapable of holding its line for more than thirty meters at a time. Now, with the light gone, he was strangely aware of the smell of manure. He hadn’t smelled it before but knew it must have been there.
“You know the road?” he said.
Gabriel’s left hand was resting on the steering wheel in a pose far too casual for the speed. Mila sat sleeping between them.
“Let’s hope.” Gabriel lit his next cigarette. He set it on the edge of his lip and tossed the match out the window.
Hoffner said, “It seems very peaceful.”
“It does.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do know you’re winning the thing.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”
“Tell me,” said Hoffner. “What is it that makes me so lucky to have found the one group of anarchists in Spain who can’t enjoy the taste of victory?”
Gabriel fended off a smile. “Common sense?”
“That’s never it.”
“Then an instinct for your own kind. You wouldn’t know what to do with it either.”
A curve forced them to the left, and Gabriel brought his full focus to the road. He ground the gears until the cab hitched at the loss of speed. Hoffner gripped the dashboard and placed an arm across Mila. She continued to sleep.
Hoffner said, “I think this is different.”
“Then you’d be wrong. It’s never different. Not when you’ve been through it before.”
Hoffner waited for more. Instead, Gabriel reached his hand down to a small tin box on the floor. He flipped open the lid, pulled out a Coca-Cola, and handed it across to Hoffner. For the fifth time in the last two hours, Hoffner opened a bottle and handed it back. This was the las
t of the stash Gabriel had brought.
Hoffner said, “A Spanish anarchist and his dedication to the American capitalist dream.”
“It tastes good. That’s all.”
“I’ve seen this stuff take the rust off a tire bolt in twenty minutes.”
Gabriel nodded and took a swig. “Just think how clean my insides must be.”
For the first time since Hoffner had met him, Gabriel pulled a healthy cigarette from his mouth. He held it in the hand with the bottle. He was thinking something through. Finally he said, “You know Asturias?”
Hoffner had never been to the northwest of Spain. He shook his head.
“Very beautiful. My family has been there a long time. Gijón. On the coast.”
Gabriel set the cigarette back on his lip and placed the bottle between his legs on the seat. He downshifted as the road began to climb.
“Two years ago we had a miners’ strike. Very bloody. Strikes weren’t popular back then. Right-wing government. The miners tried to take the capital. They marched on Oviedo. They were gunned down. Three thousand killed, another twenty-five thousand thrown in prison. And the man the government sent to break the back of Asturias? Franco. The same Franco who now sits in Morocco and waits to do the same to Spain. Not so different.”
Gabriel spat something out the window, and Hoffner said, “You were there?”
“In the streets, at the barracks, in the hills—of course.” Gabriel took the bottle from between his legs. “I told my wife to spit on my picture when the asaltos came looking to arrest me. I haven’t been back since. Now I go home.” He drank.
“And she knows you’re coming?”
Gabriel remained quiet for nearly half a minute. “Yes,” he finally said; if there was regret in his voice, he refused to admit it. “She knows.”
Hoffner watched as Gabriel tipped the bottle all the way back before setting it on the floor.
Gabriel said, “I hear our doctor pulled a gun. Impressive.”
The Second Son: A Novel Page 17