“Jenaro, you can count on my help—if I hear anything.”
“Ezkerrik asko.”
“You are welcome, my friend. Come by later and I’ll serve you a stuffed txangurro.”
“Emm. I like txangurro. We eat them in Zarautz.”
“I’ll have one for you,” said Pampi, remembering that he should check on how they were coming along.
* * *
Zubi Nabaroa, who wished he had never left Ituren, was sweating. He had killed a Spanish colonel and had heard what happened to Basques who did such things. He would be horribly tortured. He had heard stories of hot irons, electricity, partial drownings, even castration with a hunting knife. Better to die now than to fall into Spanish hands. Or he knew places in the high mountains where he could hide and never be found.
But wait! What was there to connect him to the killing? Only two things: the body and the murder weapon. Wasn’t that about everything but the confession?
But the body could be hidden, and the murder weapon—he could sell it off to be eaten as soon as possible. After all, it was just a large chorizo.
Then he realized that he did not have to hide the body. It could be found, just somewhere else—not in front of his stand. An ideal place was close by—the market. The market was closed and anybody could have killed the colonel there. So he removed his six remaining yard-long sausages from the sturdy canvas bag in which he carried them. With a cloth he wiped the trickle of blood now dried black off the colonel’s forehead so that he would look presentable. He then put the bag over the colonel’s head and turned it upside down. Zubi thought he would fold him into the bottom of the bag, but he was becoming a little stiff. He put the chorizos in so that the bag had chorizo tops and two boots showing from the top, but no one was going to notice. Everyone was drunk.
When he got to the market he turned the bag upside down and peeled off the bag like unveiling a statue. The colonel was standing stiffly against a wall by a pile of empty boxes. Zubi stepped back and decided the colonel looked good standing there, he had looked a little stiff before he died and now was no different, and so he gathered up his chorizos and left.
He was careful to identify which chorizo was the murder weapon, a particularly hard and thick sausage, which made it too obvious when the police started looking through the sausages for the weapon. Of course, that was the one they would choose because it was the best one. It made the best club. But also, if someone knew chorizo, it was the best one. He should sell it to someone special, someone who knew chorizo and was sure to savor it—quickly.
* * *
Not all the chefs in all the txokos were drumming on the streets. Ander Elarregui, for example, wore neither his chef’s uniform nor that of a Napoleonic soldier. A small man with wire-rim thick-lens glasses that suggested poor vision, he nevertheless was thought to be the best wing shot in Basque country. Every fall he went to Roncesvalles and hid in the pine woods where Basque warriors once waited to pounce on Roland and the French rear guard of Charlemagne. From there, through his thick glasses, he would shoot quantities of little gray-and-white wild pigeons, with which, not only according to his own txoko—Gastrotxapeldun—but according to most everyone in Guipúzcoa, incontestably he made the best salmis de paloma.
Also not drumming was a thick sturdy man with a tangle of curly long black-and-gray hair called Marmitako. His real name was José Marie Lizar, but he made the best marmitako in Basque country. A marmitako is a fisherman’s stew and there is no agreement on the ingredients other than that tuna must be included. Marmitako would never say what his ingredients were. Food was going this way. The rough, simple foods of fishermen and farmers were becoming the prized dishes of expensive restaurants. Alubias de Tolosa, just a bowl of red beans, was a fiercely fought contest in Tolosa every year that Marmitako could never win, probably because no matter how good his beans, he was a Vizcayan in a Guipuzcoan contest.
But in truth Marmitako was not good at anything but making marmitakos. He had failed at every job he ever got, had not worked for several years, and was completely without money. Many said that Marmitako was not very smart. Some said that he was dumb. Ander explained that he just seemed that way because he spoke in Vizcayan.
Ander wanted to help him because he was married to Ander’s sister. And he had a plan.
Ander was an executive at a downtown branch of Kutxabank. Ten months earlier he was promoted and given the combination to the large walk-in safe. This knowledge weighed heavily on him. He wanted to rob that bank and all he had to do was walk in and take the money. But if he did that they would know that he had done it because he had the combination. So the question was how to make it look like it was someone else.
Then, only a few days earlier, a solution came to Ander. The solution was brilliant, but it required a plan. Ander had not slept in days and his eyes were red. But so were everyone else’s from staying up late and drinking. What gave him the idea was that he heard that Begoña was coming. With Begoña in town, any bank robbery would be blamed on her. That was assuming that no one saw him rob the bank. And that was why he needed Marmitako.
They built two bombs. Bombs were Begoña’s kind of weapon. The two bombs had to be on timers set to the exact same time. One was a big bomb and one was smaller. This may all sound difficult, but Ander, who always had a mechanical gift, found all the information he needed on the Internet.
There were even a few helpful suggestions at what appeared to be a website from Basque terrorists. The bombs were built in boxes used to transport the large rounds of sheep-milk cheese that Basque farms produced, ardi gasna. He was even able to get cheese labels from local farms to put on the boxes. Ander set the bombs in advance to blow up in exactly two hours and forty-five minutes. Then Marmitako’s only task was to leave his large bomb somewhere in the train station while Ander left his small one by the bank. Ander didn’t need a bomb. He had a key. But a bomb would look more authentic. The train station would be bombed and draw all the police and no one would notice the bank.
And so Marmitako set off for the train station with a box of cheese. But twenty minutes later he was back at the corner bar where Ander was waiting. The bartender had bought some exceptional chorizo, large and hard, and cut it in paper-thin slices, which Ander was enjoying with a glass of txakoli that the bartender poured from high over his glass so that it would fizz. Marmitako tried to get Ander’s attention, but the bartender was explaining to Ander that he bought the sausage from the producer, who came to town with it only this once a year, and that he was just around the corner from the market if Ander wanted to buy one. All the while Marmitako kept trying to interrupt.
“What do you want?” Ander finally turned to him.
Marmitako motioned for him to leave the bar.
“Did you plant it?” asked Ander.
“Not exactly,” said Marmitako.
“What does that mean? The thing has a timer!”
“I know, I know. There’s time. But something happened.” Marmitako was speaking Vizcaíno and Ander was having trouble understanding.
“Calm down, Marmitako, and tell me in Castilian.”
“Okay. I was carrying the box and I went by the market on the way to the train station and that colonel was there.”
“Which colonel?”
“That Gallego from the Policía Nacional. He was just standing there staring right at me and he looked kind of funny and then I had a brilliant idea.”
“Really, what was that?”
“There was a big pile of boxes. Cheese boxes with labels and everything. I think they were all empty. It was that stuff from the French side. Above Arnéguy. Nice strong flavor from the high pasture . . .”
“What happened to the bomb!” Ander suddenly shouted. Sweat made his glasses slide down his nose.
“Nothing. I just left it there with the other cheese boxes. Smart, huh?”
Ander st
ared at him. “Aside from the fact that a bomb in an empty market is not going to attract the attention of a bomb in a crowded train station, there is the fact that the location is all wrong. The train station would draw all the police away from the area, and the market will draw them all into the area where the bank is.”
“It’s okay. I know where to find it and the colonel is probably gone now. I’ll go back and get the cheese and take it to the train station. There is still plenty of time.” He was also thinking he could stop by and get one of those chorizos.
“Hurry up. And then call me when you have it planted. But be careful what you say over a cellphone.”
“I’ll just say that Aunt Karmele got her cheese.”
“Perfect.”
“Listen, Ander, maybe we shouldn’t do the train station. A lot of people could get hurt there.”
“Marmitako,” Ander said, staring at him through his thick lenses that concentrated his red eyes into tiny penetrating lasers. “Do you want the money or do you want to be a loser all your life?”
Marmitako retreated with his wound. How could his friend talk to him like that? If he just got this money no one would ever speak to him like that again.
* * *
Ander waited at the bar with more chorizo and txakoli. Still waiting for his call, he moved on to grilled Guernica peppers with coarse salt from Vizcaya. He also took a nice little open sandwich with baby eels. The more he ate, the more he wanted one of those big chorizos to take home. Time was running out. Wherever that bomb was, in forty-four minutes it would explode and he had to leave his by the bank. Why wasn’t Marmitako calling? There was no more time. The fool had used up all his time and now he would not be able to buy a chorizo. He paid his bill and, with the box marked “Ardi gasna” under his arm, left for his bank.
Marmitako wondered, what if he went to the train station and there were people there he knew? Well, they were probably people who called him “a loser.” Maybe he could find a spot at the train station where there were not a lot of people.
Walking quickly to the market to retrieve his package, Marmitako turned down Legazpi Street. The air was still filled with the pounding rhythmic debate of drummers, but this street was empty except that Zubi Nabaroa was still there. And he had two chorizos left. Marmitako thought of buying both and giving one to his friend Ander. But he had heard they were very expensive. But then, after today, what would he care about the price of chorizo?
Zubi was studying the man approaching him. He had the body of a peasant. Would this be the man to whom he should sell the murder weapon? But suddenly behind his prospective customer he saw the large figure of brown furry rolling muscle coming down the street. He pointed and Marmitako turned. Who does he see coming toward him but Begoña herself, dressed in a bear suit and looking angry. Everyone thought he was a fool but he was not tricked this time.
“I didn’t know you would be so mad,” Marmitako pleaded to the bear. He was scared. “I thought you liked getting credit for these things.”
The bear swatted with his huge paws and his long black claws and slammed Marmitako into the wall of a building. It looked to Zubi as though he were just tossing him out of the way. He’s coming for my chorizo, Zubi thought. Maybe I should give him the murder weapon.
“Begoña,” Marmitako implored, bleeding and struggling to stand.
But the bear threw him against the wall again and slashed with his claws and blood splattered on the wall. “Begoña, it wasn’t my idea!” Marmitako screamed, and the bear, alarmed, lumbered back down the street with surprising speed.
Marmitako collapsed—dead.
Zubi groaned.
It was not good to have corpses in front of your chorizo stand. This one was a bit too messy to put in his chorizo bag, so he dragged it by the arms back to the market. The colonel was still there and looking good, though a bit too pale. Maybe if he dumped this one next to him they would think they killed each other, though the claw marks might be hard to explain. Maybe a desperate struggle? But as he dragged Marmitako to the colonel’s feet, the colonel fell over, straight as a felled tree. It was as though he’d died again. Best to leave everything.
He returned to his stand and discovered that the latest victim had left behind a box. It was a cheese. Ardi gasna. A sheep’s cheese. Was it made in the high country, where the grazing is tough and the milk tastes strong, or was it made with the rich bland milk from the valleys? He preferred high-country cheese. He sniffed the box and couldn’t tell, though he thought he detected a certain valley richness. He would look later. He tucked the cheese under his stool.
* * *
Ander, still angry about missing the chorizo man, wondered why Marmitako had not called him. Muttering to himself, he made his way to a safe position across the street from the Kutxabank. It was a commercial street and all the stores, including the bank, were gated closed. Ander placed his box in front of the bank. What if some passerby noticed it? He thought of unlocking the door and placing the bomb inside. But maybe they would be able to tell later. Better not.
There were still some drums and some trumpets heard around town, but then there was a very large boom. Ander was surprised at how loud it was. The other one was a long way away at the train station but sounded much closer. The front of the Kutxabank dissolved so suddenly that he didn’t even see it fall. It just wasn’t there anymore. He rushed into the building.
Captain Jenaro Anitua was in his black-and-red car. He received a call that someone had “blown up the market. So far they had found two dead and no wounded.” Why would she blow up the closed market? Maybe she wanted to scare people without a lot of casualties. They did that sometimes.
He was about to turn on his siren and rush to the market, which was not far away, when he saw a small dusty man coming out of the Kutxabank, carrying one of those cheap brown leather shoulder bags. The man was so slight that at first he imagined it was a woman dressed as a man. Begoña! Some said Begoña was very small. But then the captain recognized the man. It was that man from the bank. Señor . . . Señor . . . Elarregui. He parked the car at an angle to block him, almost pinning him against the building.
“Señor Elarregui,” he shouted as he got out of the car.
Ander struggled for words. “I was just . . . I . . . The front of the building is gone.”
“I see that.”
“I was checking for . . . for damage.”
“What’s in the bag?” said the captain, grabbing it from him.
He pulled the zipper, which made a high-pitched note. Looking inside, he estimated that the bills totaled more than one million euros.
In life there are some split seconds that take a long time and others that fly by quickly even though in real time they are both the same length. This was a fast moment. Jenaro liked the feeling of holding more than a million euros in cash. That was the only thing he felt. But it was a life-changing fraction of a second in which all his decisions were made. He smiled at Ander. Ander smiled back helplessly as the captain drew his handgun and fired several rounds into the street and in the wall of the building behind Ander. Some made sparks as they skidded off the stone. Others caused pockmarks in little bursts of powder.
With each round Ander flinched. But then the captain gave him another reassuring smile and Ander shrugged and smiled back as though to say “Isn’t this silly?”
The captain nodded and raised his weapon and fired a single bullet into the center of Ander Elarregui’s forehead. He fell slowly, still smiling. Even on the ground, looking up with the dark hole in his forehead, he was still smiling. Jenaro, realizing the wound looked too much like an assassination, shot Ander once in the shoulder and once in the chest. He reached down to rearrange Ander’s face, but it had become a rubber mask that popped back into a smile no matter what he did. He took out his car keys, pushed the button, and his trunk flew open. He quickly deposited the bag under a pile of bl
ankets that he and his wife and young son used when they went to the beach in Zarautz. Then he took out a Beretta—compact, a nice little Italian gun. He liked to shoot the Beretta, but it had no registration. He took it off of a young man he arrested on terrorism. Probably if police tried to trace it they could track it back to some terrorist cell. He quietly kept the gun because he had an idea that an unregistered gun would be handy someday, even though the young man was not convicted because no one could find a weapon. Jenaro didn’t mind. The kid was from Zarautz and he knew his family.
Jenaro placed the Beretta in Ander’s still-limp right hand, placed his finger on the trigger and fired a few rounds, and then let his arm drop. When the hand hit the ground the pistol stayed in his palm. This was a lucky day, Jenaro thought.
He called in the incident. Bank robbery in progress. Man and woman. The woman got away but the man stayed behind to cover for her, fired at him, and he had to shoot him. They would soon find out that he was a bank officer working for Begoña. She had infiltrated the bank. She was everywhere.
* * *
Zubi had decided that it might be dangerous to be caught with the cheese. Besides, isn’t it bad luck to eat a dead man’s food? Two minutes after he dropped the cheese off with the colonel, on his way back to Legazpi Street he heard a loud boom and realized that he had been right about luck.
That was it. He had sold every chorizo except the murder weapon. Of course, after what had just happened to the colonel’s body, they might not be that interested in one little head wound. But he had heard that they had laboratories that could find out everything. He wrapped up his last chorizo and started to head out of town.
“Hey, you. Wait!”
Zubi turned slowly and saw an Ertzaintza captain running toward him. If he tried to run the man would probably shoot him. Could he be fast enough to club him? He would have to try. He couldn’t let him take him. But when the captain reached him, almost out of breath, he said, “Any chorizo left?”
City Beasts Page 20