The Bird in Last Year's Nest

by Shaun Herron

  “I know that.”

  He was at Somera early on Tuesday night, standing in a doorway, watching number twenty.

  Reis came first, almost dancing with a swinging step, whistling; he looked about him to spot observers and, seeing none, waltzed a little, made a joyful Basque leap, high-kicking in the air and went inside. That was Reis. Mauro smiled at Reis. Abril would call him a “bourgeois dilettante” and Abril would be right. Reis would get rich and in time he would see every side of every question and he would be a rich and cynical old man, and tolerant of the oddities of others. He’s probably the best of us, when the story is all told, Mauro thought.

  Haro came soon after, walking with purpose, bent a little forward from the waist, as if another inch would help him at the finish line. Haro would die rich and rigid. Radical now, reactionary later. He saw them with a clarity he had never allowed himself before. With his head on the block, his eyes were open.

  There were silence and emptiness in the street.

  Then a short man as broad as a house, a beret on his head, walked up the street from Ribera. He walked with a powerful waddle and did not hesitate as he turned into number twenty. It had all been scouted. They had passed this way before. It was ten minutes before the next one came, from the other end of the street. He was a man of middle height, bareheaded, without a top coat, walking slowly with his head up as if he listened to the street. He stopped to light a cigar, turned his back to the light wind from the river, checked behind him and stepped briskly into number twenty. The third one was not far behind and from the same direction; a youth. He stayed by the door of the house, lit a cigarette, and began his vigil. Skull would not take them by surprise. They knew everything, foresaw everything, prepared for everything. They were the professionals. Their lives were concealment, evasion, deceit, mobility. Mauro wondered how men could live that way, without being able to relax, be careless, be indifferent. He did not want to live that way. He did not speak to the youth at the door but, bracing his spirit against the apprehension that harassed it, crossed the street and went upstairs and turned his key.

  Reis, Haro and Abril were in the kitchen preparing food. Let all things be equal and the same as they were. Food as usual in spite of the señora. Nothing must ever be as it was not. That would be noticed. The two men sat on the bench by the narrow table against the wall. They faced the room and looked to Mauro like farmers waiting in patient discomfort at a bus station. They stood up, watchful as boars in a thicket and did not smile and did not speak. Abril came from the kitchen and waved his hand inclusively. “They’re here,” he said by way of introduction. Nameless. Namelessness is a strange condition, Mauro thought. How many people can they trust? But trust was a powerful word. It made him think of his father and mother and their trust, which embraced him. The thought fortified his resolution. He went into the kitchen to help the cooks.

  “It’s good,” the thick one said in a throaty grunt and lacking a name for him, Mauro christened him Boar. The other one he would name when he spoke. Boar shovelled Reis’ potaje de titos into his mouth. He looked at the other one who nodded vigorous agreement and said nothing. He was spooning the dark mess of Haro’s squid. Mauro ate Abril’s pollo a la chilindrón. They ate in throttled silence and drank sparingly.

  “That was good,” the Boar said when every pot had been emptied. He took a long draught of red wine. “Good,” he said with deep-bellied satisfaction. “I like good food. Now.” He pushed his dish away.

  “When we clear away,” Mauro said, asserting a leadership he had come to assert.

  They sat in a half-moon at the low table. The two men sat on the bench, their elbows behind them on the narrow table. “Now,” Boar said and Mauro marveled at his enormous chest.

  “You are assigned,” Boar said, “to a vital part of the Anson operation.”

  I should speak now, Mauro thought, but there is nothing to speak to yet. He waited, and waiting, felt something drain away, as if by silence he had already given ground.

  Boar had peculiar speckled eyes, of what color Mauro could not determine. It was their heat that awed him, and they surveyed the young men around the table as if to dissect them.

  “Maps will come later,” Boar said. “The purpose of the action is to exchange the Señora Aña Anson for ten million pesetas and Vincente Hierro.”

  “It is a mistake,” Mauro said and the tremor in his throat was audible in his head.

  “Discussion will come later,” Boar said. “What discussion is necessary.” He looked steadily at Mauro and remained silent for a long moment. “The situation is simple. This coming Saturday, the señora will open an exhibition of paintings at San Sebastian. They are the work of a young painter of Pamplona. He is Martin Celaya. She believes in him.” He smiled a faint little smile and waited for his irony to be grasped. “In the evening she will preside at a dinner given by her at the Hotel de Londres y de Inglaterra in Celaya’s honor to the cultural notables of San Sebastian. She will leave there with her protege and go to the Anson bloodstock farm at Hernani where they plan to remain till Monday morning. The Señora Anson is, as you know, a famous horsewoman. They plan to ride horses on Sunday. The horses are better housed than the poor of Bilbao.”

  “How do you know she’ll be there?” Mauro asked aggressively.

  “We read it in her engagement book. We have eyes in her house in Pamplona.”

  “A servant?”

  “There are three women servants at the Anson farmhouse in Hernani,” Boar said, ignoring Mauro, “and a manservant. You will arrive before the señora and the painter return on Saturday and put these servants under restraint. You will then wait for the señora and the painter, put the painter under restraint and remove the Anson woman to a safe place where you will hold her until the money is paid and Hierro is released across the frontier. The maps will show you in exact detail where you will be and where you will go. We shall study them now …” He reached into his high boot and pulled out the maps.

  “No,” Mauro said.

  Boar laid the maps on the table with slow, deliberate care. He opened and spread them. Then he turned to Mauro. “You have something to say?”

  “The whole thing is a mistake. You can’t kidnap a woman. You’ll alienate all Spain.”

  “That has been considered. The decision has been made. You have been assigned your part.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  Boar took a piece of paper from his inside pocket. He spread it on the table and read from it, “From the bottom,” he said, “the Valmaseda bank, the Iruña Zarra bombing, the bank at Ondárroa, the Civil Guard barrack explosions at Pedernales. Do I go on? You appear to have an excellent service record. Did you take part in these operations?”

  “Yes.”

  “And seven others?”

  “Yes.”

  “You took orders and accepted responsibility?”

  “Yes.”

  “You made no attempt to pick and choose the operations you engaged in?”

  “No.”

  “And now you do?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are not free to do so.”

  “It’s a stupid operation. You’ll alienate …”

  “Is that your only argument?”

  “Are you trying to make enemies?” The Boar’s cold condescension, and the power that flowed from him, made Mauro shout. The man was like a rolling boulder on a slope.

  “I shall try to put your mind at ease about that,” Boar said. “It has been considered. There are times when the objective makes a temporary alienation of public sympathy well worth risking. The public mind is fickle. There will soon be some government action which sweeps what support we have back to us. The temporary loss of sympathy is the price we have to pay for ten million pesetas and for Hierro, whom we need now. His release will be a major psychological victory. The effect on future arrests will be phenomenal. They will hesitate to make them knowing what we are capable of doing. They cannot guard all the wealthy women of S
pain. It has all been discussed. It is decided.”

  “And if they won’t pay? If they won’t release Hierro? You lose everything by having to release Señora Anson without your price. You are made to look incompetent.”

  “That is why we chose a woman. That is why we chose this woman. Her husband has the price. The government will not keep Hierro. This public opinion that concerns you so much will not let her husband or the government sacrifice a woman.”

  “Sacrifice a woman?”

  “Sacrifice.”

  “What are you telling us?”

  “If the industrialist Anson does not pay, and if the government does not release Hierro, the señora will not go home. They might, you could argue, hang Hierro. But the wealthy women of Spain outnumber the leaders of the Fifth Assembly. It has all been decided.”

  “You’d kill her?”

  “We won’t need to kill her.”

  “Answer the question! If they don’t pay, will you kill her?”

  “Who holds her will kill her.”

  “And we are assigned to hold her?”

  “That is the decision.”

  “I’ll not do it. They won’t do it.” Mauro swept his arm across the table at his friends. “Reis?” he demanded.

  “No,” Reis said. “I will not.” His hands were locked and white.

  “Haro?”

  “I’ll not do it.” He glowered doggedly at Boar. “I’ll not do it.”

  “Abril?”

  “I’ll do what must be done.” Abril looked directly into Mauro’s face. “They shot Mendizábal to death. They trapped him in Guecho when he was the leader of the Fifth Assembly before Hierro. They shot six shipyard strikers the other day. They are not squeamish about spilling our blood. Their blood spills as easily as ours and it is red like ours. It looks the same on the street.”

  Boar smiled. “That is very dramatic,” he said, “but there will be no need for blood. They will pay. They paid for Huarte. They did not hang the prisoners in the Burgos trials when we took the West German consul to stop the hangings. They will not sacrifice the Anson woman. Public opinion will not let them.”

  “But they caught all the men who took Huarte and they killed Mendizábal who led them,” Mauro said.

  “Mendizábal was too bold. He did not hide his face. I am not a bold man.”

  “I’ll not take any part in it.”

  “Young man,” Boar said, and the patience had left his voice. “You have been assigned. You know. Do you think you can be privy to such knowledge and walk away?”

  The silence was audible.

  Boar said, “They trapped Mendizábal in Guecho and shot him to death. How did they know where to find him? Three days after they shot him to death, a young priest was found, dead by the knife. Do you think we should leave ourselves vulnerable? Do you believe we have no recourse? Priest or pope—there is no immunity, just as there was no sound at that priest’s end. He was the one. Such necessities we find distasteful.”

  Reis dropped a pencil he was twisting in his fingers. The small noise sounded like a cannon. “I’m sorry,” he said pointlessly.

  “We shall now get down to details,” Boar said.

  There was no more discussion. The three young men sat numbly on their stools, confused and afraid in this first encounter with the other side of their radical penny. Boar frightened them. They felt his power. But even more frightening was what they could not see—the tentacles that could reach them, soundlessly.

  Abril sat, smiling. And Boar filled the room with his size and his sound.

  “We shall all become familiar with our responsibilities,” he said, and put a light to his list of Mauro’s operations, smiling at him. “Nerves,” he said. “You’ll get over them. You have done excellent work.”

  He leaned over the maps. “Hernani,” he said. “You will make yourselves familiar with the ground—every yard of it. You will do that separately, not in a group. You will take the woman from this house, to this house, only fourteen kilometers away.” His voice droned on, laden with infinite detail and authority. Over and over again. There were no more questions. He nodded to Mauro. “You will be in charge of the woman. Your gallant feelings qualify you.” He nodded to Abril. “You will be in charge of this part of the general operation. Your sentiments equip you.”

  Reis said, very softly, as if not to disturb a sleeping dog, “What is your part?”

  “My unit will handle the dangerous part. We shall collect the money. Hierro will carry it from his cell where they will deliver it to him and bring it under escort to the frontier. There is irony in that, is there not? That will make a good story around the world.”

  7

  Do not go looking for five feet on a cat.

  SPANISH PROVERB

  Sick with misery, Pureza sent word to the car-hire company that she was not well. The message she got in reply said she could have four days without pay and would need a doctor’s certificate when she came back to work.

  Mauro raced to and away from classes, missing some, pleading indisposition, not opening a book. He had become to himself a ridiculous scrambling figure, the bold bourgeois romantic caught between the common but pressing necessities of student life and the oppressive bondage of his fantasy world.

  Pureza rode behind him to Hernani and out to the valley where the Anson horses ran. They climbed the wooded hills that enclosed the rich green meadows and sat among the trees, watching,

  “That’s the Anson house,” Mauro explained. “The manager’s house and the stables and barns are down the valley around the corner, out of sight. Nobody but the four servants comes near the house after six o’clock. It’s all been scouted. That part will be easy.”

  “It won’t work, Mauro,” Pureza insisted miserably.

  “It has to work.”

  They rode the fourteen kilometers into the higher hills to the house where Señora Anson was to be held. It was a large house, secluded and inhabited. “They’ve hired it and put a couple in it. Their job is to front for us. Then they’ll slip back into France. The cars will be hired in France, driven over the frontier on Saturday and driven back as soon as we get her to this house. Their calculation is that keeping her so close to the Anson place, the Civil Guard will be fooled. They’ll expect us to run for the frontier, so they’ll try to close the mountain routes.”

  “Will they?”

  “Probably. It’s the first thing they always think of.”

  “Maybe they’ll change their way of thinking this time. God, I’m sick, Mauro. It’s not going to work. You’ll be in jail for thirty years.”

  “I’ll make it work.”

  “And what do we do afterwards?”

  “I don’t know. We have to make it work first. Then we’ll think about afterwards.”

  They went back down the twisting road toward Hernani. The road to Arano turned left off it, a narrow road, four meters wide. They rode along it for a way, and back to the Hernani road.

  “Our orders are to stay three hundred yards apart,” he said, “Reis and Haro in the first car, me in the middle with the señora taped, lying in the back seat, Abril and another man I haven’t seen, in the third car. Another pro, I suppose. They’ll have the guns. Automatic pistols.”

  They went up and down the road many times, always turning into the road to Arano and pulling in quickly to the side.

  “Nobody’ll know she’s gone till the word is phoned from Hendaye by the men who are supposed to take the cars back. Their job is to call a link in Pamplona and the husband will get a call from there. Then the pressure comes on. All the papers in Europe are to be told so that our papers and television can’t suppress it.”

  “Why don’t we run, Mauro? To France? I have enough to get us to England.”

  “We have to go through with it. We have to make it work. After that, we’ll see.”

  “We couldn’t even earn a living outside Spain. My God!”

  They went up and down the road on Wednesday and Thursday and
Friday. They knew it yard for yard, from the stock farm to the holding-house beyond the Arano road. “This is the spot. We drew our money from the Siglo tobacco shop this morning,” he said. “This is my share. Hire a car from Hertz and be exactly here on this spot, headed out.”

  “I never knew till now what it’s like to be sick with fear.”

  He didn’t kiss her when she leaned against him. He put an arm around her and gave her a comradely squeeze. He felt no sentiment. He was frightened, and doubtful, and desperately determined. “We’ll come out of this,” he said and wondered how. All the damage was done. Even success wouldn’t undo it. And success was a very long shot. The more he thought about it, the less likely he believed it to be.

  They rode down into San Sebastian and took the superway back to Bilbao. “Sleep well,” she said hopelessly and went to her room and cried.

  On Saturday morning he sought again the security of the womb and phoned his parents. They were having breakfast.

  “Mauro, Mauro, this is a wonderful surprise. Can you afford it? Did you get my letter about Pureza? Will she come at Christmas?”

  “She wants to come, Mama.” But Christmas is an eternity from here.

  “Did you get my letter?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Was there some special reason for calling?”

  “Nothing special, Mama. I wanted to tell you I love you.” I want to cry “Help me, please” and you can’t.

  “We love you dearly, Mauro. Are you working hard?”

  “Very. May I speak to Father?”

  “Yes, dear, yes, dear.”

  Ugalde said at once, “Is anything wrong, Mauro?”

  “No, no, Father. I just wanted to talk to you.” I want to tell you what I’ve done to you and I can’t.

  “You’re all right?”

  “Yes, yes. Father?”

  “Yes, Mauro?”

  “I wanted to say how much I love you.”

  “I wanted to hear you say it. Are you sure all’s well?”

  “Yes, yes. I love you and Mama more than I know how to say. I wanted to tell you.” I want to warn you of the disaster that hangs over you and I haven’t the courage to tell you.