Blood Crime

by Sebastia Alzamora

  “Actually, we aren’t in very much of a hurry.” Brother Lacunza dared a smile that attempted—in vain—to transmit cordiality.

  Silence again prevailed in the private room. The men were seated on either side of a rectangular table with chairs around it. None of them seemed to have anything to say. Finally Gil Portela spoke up. “I thought there would only be three of them,” he said brusquely, without addressing anyone in particular.

  He was referring to the presence of Brother Darder, who in the end had decided to accompany Brothers Plana and Lacunza and Adjutant Émile Aragou to the meeting with the FAI representatives. Actually, Brother Plana had already notified the anarchists the previous day that Brother Darder would be joining them, and he took the opportunity to inform them that the religious was related to the Republican mayor of Palma de Mallorca. So Gil Portela was in fact abreast of this addition and was merely trying to put more pressure on his interlocutors. And he succeeded.

  Brother Darder, his voice hoarse, offered, “If my presence is an inconvenience, you have only—”

  Brother Lacunza hurried to interrupt: “Brother Darder is—”

  But both men were cut short by Antoni Ordaz, who made a hand gesture dismissing the matter. Brother Plana was hunched over, as always, a vague, vacant look on his face. The pale, sullen adjutant remained hieratic at his end of the table.

  Burntface returned with a waiter and they all ordered drinks and coffee. When the waiter had left, Ordaz resumed speaking, his expression hardened. “Senyors,” he said, solemnly, “I assume that the persons here present assert that they are who they say they are, and that this meeting takes place in the absence of observers and spies.”

  Before Antoni Ordaz had finished speaking, Gil Portela had reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and removed a revolver which he placed on the table. Burntface, standing beside him, also took out the gun he was carrying at his waist and placed it beside Gil Portela’s. The weapons were identical—nine millimeter Astra 400s—and their appearance was galvanizing. Brother Darder glanced at Brother Plana with alarm, but the latter looked away. Adjutant Aragou cleared his throat.

  “I think that is unnecessary,” Brother Lacunza said, chin-pointing to the weapons.

  Antoni Ordaz sat up stiffly in his chair. “It’s not a matter of what you think, brother. I want all of you to know that we’re not fooling around here. Many of our comrades are paying for fascist injustices with prison and torture, and your Church gives these dealings their blessing. Many others have paid with their lives. Our desire for retaliation against the powerful is great. And it is just.”

  A silence as thick as tar came over the room again. The waiter entered with the drinks and froze when he saw the guns on the table.

  “You,” Gil Portela snapped at him, “serve the drinks and scram.”

  His forehead and sideburns pearling with drops of sweat, the boy set each glass and cup in front of the correct person, without making any mistakes, then turned and left. The drinks and the two guns in the center of the table formed a sinister still life. Silence continued to rule the meeting, as if each participant was locked inside a bell jar.

  “Very well, then!” Antoni Ordaz suddenly pounded the table, making the cups clink. “Now that we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way, what do you have to say, senyors?”

  Brother Lacunza breathed out through his nose and unfolded a paper he had prepared. Circumspectly, he read the statement that the Marist Congregation of Barcelona had composed the previous evening:

  “We come to the meeting requested by the FAI with the hope of reaching an agreement. In the last few days we have received news that thirty-six Marists have been taken prisoners in various locations, and our community fears and prays for their fate. Before negotiations may proceed, as a preliminary condition, we must insist that surveillance patrols cease conducting arrests and that they free the prisoners presently being held in the Generalitat’s detention centers. Furthermore, we demand that the safety of the brothers lodged in pensions or private homes be ensured; we suspect that the Department of Investigations has blacklisted them and we fear that sooner or later they will all suffer the same fate. If you agree to our conditions, we are willing to reach an economic arrangement whereby the Marist Brothers will be allowed to leave the country, along with the seminarians and students who so desire.”

  He had read the communiqué fast, with no pauses, as a child might recite a poem, but with a steady voice. Antoni Ordaz looped one thumb around the other, seemingly pleased by what he had just heard. As no one spoke, Brother Lacunza believed it necessary to broach the main argument.

  “I would like to reiterate the loyalty of our congregation to the institutions of the Catalan government. Adjutant Émile Aragou and I, in the name of our Provincial Superior, guarantee the delivery in cash of the amount of money decided upon here at this table, up to a maximum of two hundred thousand French francs.”

  Burntface let out a whistle. Gil Portela couldn’t help but reveal an incipient smile. Antoni Ordaz breathed deeply and squinted, as if looking into the sun. Taking evil pleasure in the religious’s predicament, he said, “Well then, brothers. You might be selling your skin, but you are selling it at a good price. No doubt about it.”

  None of the Marists said a word, knowing they could not allow themselves the luxury of responding to provocations. Gil Portela pulled a cigar out of thin air and lit it ostentatiously; the room quickly filled with smoke.

  Brother Lacunza plopped his elbows on the table. “This is all we are able to offer you, senyors.”

  Enveloped by the smoke from Gil Portela’s cigar, Ordaz delivered his judgment: “It should suffice.”

  Brothers Lacunza and Darder exchanged looks of relief. Brother Plana raised his eyes to the ceiling as if thanking God, thereby exposing his short, delicate neck, which recalled that of a ferret or a genet.

  As if he had just received the awaited signal, Adjutant Aragou broke his silence to address the anarchists: “The FAI, or perhaps even the Generalitat itself, will need to resolve the issue of bank controls.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Gil Portela scornfully. “When the time comes, we could open up the border crossing at La Jonquera. Under strict surveillance, naturally.”

  “Hold on, don’t be in such a rush.” Antoni Ordaz was annoyed that Gil Portela had taken the reins. “I assume, brothers, that you have already given some thought to the evacuation procedure.”

  Brother Lacunza nodded. “The students and seminarians must be given priority. The ones in Casa de Les Avellanes in Balaguer should be the first to leave in view of their desperate situation. The second evacuation would be for all the religious we are able to locate and who wish to join us.”

  “How many people are we speaking of?” asked Gil Portela.

  “Before the beginning of the war the provincial community had seven hundred and seventeen religious. We have no way of knowing exactly how many there are now.”

  “Bloody hell!” exclaimed Burntface, furious. “We got to get all these blasted crows out of Spain? Come on, now. Let’s take the money and tell’em to beat it.”

  The florid outburst unnerved Brother Lacunza.

  “We do not have the money at present,” he said. “Only if we reach an agreement will Adjutant Aragou return to Lyon to procure it at the headquarters of the Marist institution and bring the money back to Barcelona to make the payment.” Then, in a quick, low voice, as if saying the rosary, he added: “And if it wouldn’t be too much to ask, would you kindly refrain from using such language?”

  Suddenly, as if in a dream, Burntface emerged from within the effluvia of his cigar, grabbed one of the pistols lying on the table, sat down next to Brother Lacunza and, pointing it at his head, whispered: “Mind repeating what you just said, you little bastard? I’m not sure I understood you, and right now I’m wondering if you are worth the b
ullet that would blow your brains out.”

  “Enough, comrade,” ordered Antoni Ordaz. “Put the gun down and return to your place. Now.”

  But instead, in one sweeping motion Gil Portela seized his own gun and aimed it between Brother Plana’s eyes.

  “Portela, what are you doing? Not me . . .” Brother Plana stuttered.

  Gil Portela exhaled a puff of smoke along with a corrosive laugh. Killing off a couple of those fools and letting the other two walk so they could convey the FAI’s conditions to their provincial superior suddenly struck him as the best way to conclude the ridiculous meeting. Portela was unaware that Brother Plana was an FAI informant; it was all the same to him to shoot Plana or one of the other Marists.

  Ordaz saw he was rapidly losing control of the situation. “You pig-headed idiots! Are you deaf? Guns on the table and everyone back to their seats!”

  “Do as he orders, guns down, comrades.” No one had noticed Manuel Escorza’s arrival; he was standing at the door to the private dining room, leaning on his crutches. Nor had they noticed Sirga, who trailed him like a faithful dog. Burntface quietly put his gun away and Gil Portela placed his on the table again. As for Antoni Ordaz, he silently cursed Escorza for the gift of ubiquity that he loved to brag about.

  “Comrade Escorza! To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” Ordaz asked in a sarcastic tone that was clearly inappropriate. He was still hesitant to accept the obvious turn in the situation.

  “You’re not going to ask me to take a seat?” inquired the impassive Escorza.

  Antoni Ordaz was forced to surrender his chair; he stood up and flattened himself against the wall to allow Manuel Escorza to get past him and sit down, which he did with considerable difficulty. Ordaz remained standing, as did Sirga and Burntface; he realized it was futile to expect Gil Portela—who had snuffed out his cigar in case it bothered Escorza—to offer him his chair. Just like that, Ordaz had been demoted in the chain of command, and in such an organic, irrevocable manner that it took him a few seconds to realize what had happened. Even so, he still had the guts to hazard another question: “I assume that Comrade Fernández is aware of your presence here . . .”

  The grimace that contorted Manuel Escorza’s knobby face might have been read as a sardonic smile in any normal person, but in him it seemed more like an expression of pain, and it intimidated Antoni Ordaz all the more. Brother Darder was examining with fascination the ugliness of the man whom nature had mocked, while Brothers Plana and Lacunza preferred to avoid observing his features. Adjutant Aragou remained silent. As far as Ordaz’s inappropriateness, Manuel Escorza did not consider it necessary to dignify it with his opinion regarding Aureli Fernández and the criteria used to run the Department of Investigations. He simply gave a long, loud burp.

  “These gentlemen here must be the Marists with whom we have begun negotiations, no?” he asked.

  “That is correct, comrade,” confirmed Antoni Ordaz, like a pupil chastised by his teacher.

  Brother Lacunza surmised he was in the presence of a high-ranking officer and immediately tried to establish direct communication with him. “Senyor, my name is Trifón Lacunza. I am here as the spokesman representing the Marist congregation in Barcelona. We would like—”

  “I have no interest in knowing who you are or what you do, and none whatsoever in discovering what you and your people are after,” Manuel Escorza spat out. “You,” he said, pointing to Gil Portela, expressly ignoring Antoni Ordaz, “what are the conditions?”

  “Two sets of evacuations, first the kids in Balaguer, then the cassocks. We are speaking of two hundred thousand francs, but Mister Fuckface,” he said pointing to Adjutant Aragou, “has to go to Lyon to get the dough.”

  Manuel Escorza’s moved his large head slightly, in a gesture of understanding. He turned to Burntface. “Problems?” He glanced at the gun the militiaman was carrying in his waistband.

  “Nothing much.” Burntface’s mottled face tensed. “These here brothers think they’re real clever,” and he gave Brother Plana a hard slap on the back of his neck, making the religious coil like a caterpillar, “and they needed to be reminded of how things work.”

  Escorza nodded again, making disagreeable slurping sounds with his mouth. He studied the four Marist brothers seated opposite him at the table. “You.”

  “Are you talking to me?” asked Brother Darder, shaken.

  Escorza went straight to the point. “I presume you’re the nephew of the mayor of Palma de Mallorca, from the Republican Left Party. Am I right?”

  Brother Darder realized his age had given him away. “That’s correct.”

  “They told me about you yesterday, and that’s when I decided to show up at today’s meeting. I have to admit I was curious about you. So, tell me, how does someone with a godfather like yours end up becoming a priest?”

  All eyes were fixed on Brother Darder, expectant. He shifted in his chair, as if each glance were a pinprick, and finally replied, “To be honest, I don’t see any contradiction between the two, senyor.”

  “You don’t, huh? And what does your uncle have to say about it?”

  “He was the one who paid for my studies at the seminary, senyor. When my father died, his brother, my godfather, took care of my education.”

  “What’s your name?

  “Pau Darder.”

  “Pau Darder and what else?”

  “Pau Darder i Serra d’Orfila, senyor.”

  “Pau Darder i Serra d’Orfila, you are a disgrace to your family . . .”

  Brother Darder found the epithet amusing and couldn’t repress a sardonic smile.

  “. . . a disgrace to your family and the scum of the earth,” added Manuel Escorza. “You find that amusing? You should know not to laugh, Pau Darder i Serra d’Orfila. Our revolution will crush your filthy, rotten Church, and soon the proletarian brothers of this country will spit on your tombs. You will piss blood, Pau Darder i Serra d’Orfila. Not so funny anymore, huh?”

  Brother Darder was silent, as were the others in the dining room. Both factions—even Gil Portela seemed petrified. Manuel Escorza allowed a few moments of silence to lend weight to his words, then said, “We accept your conditions, but we will keep the mayor’s little nephew as hostage. We will return him to you safe and sound once you deliver the two hundred thousand francs; if for any reason the money does not arrive, we will kill him. You and you,” he said pointing to Burntface and Sirga, “take him away to a safe place and set up shifts to watch him.”

  Brother Darder opened his mouth to speak, but he was incapable of articulating a single word. Brother Lacunza started to protest, but Burntface silenced him with a slap across the mouth. Adjutant Aragou remained quiet; Brother Plana was in a cold sweat.

  “You,” Manuel Escorza said, addressing Gil Portela, “you’re in charge of seeing that the Frenchie here goes to Lyon and returns with the money. Work it out with Aureli Fernández and with him,” and he pointed to Antoni Ordaz, who stood forgotten in the corner. “From now on I want to be kept informed of all the details of this operation.”

  Manuel Escorza had not yet finished giving orders when his voice was drowned out by the loud wailing of the air-raid sirens on the street. The meeting was over, the bombing had begun.

  He wrote:

  I heard it coming, the sound gaining on me little by little.

  Thirst had brought me out of hiding, the urge to quench it compelling me to show myself on the city’s streets.

  Aircraft carriers were flying low over downtown Barcelona, dropping bombs like enormous dead animals on Passeig de Gràcia and Gran Via, Plaça de Catalunya and Plaça Urquinaona, on La Rambla, Pelai and Bergara, on Bonsuccés and Tallers. Throngs of people scurried from one place to the next in a furious, meaningless stampede. Bricks and large stones fell from the ruined façades of buildings—rubble projectiles, entire balconies, shattered w
indows that crushed and dismembered the poor souls below. The fortunate escaped with wounds; others writhed on the ground, moaning as they tried in vain to stanch the bleeding. Soon they were engulfed by the cloud of dust raised by a new deflagration, as thousands of pavement fragments sailed through the air, mixing with mortar and shrapnel, lethal. The smell of charred flesh and fecal waters from burst sewer lines combined into an unbearable stench.

  I sheltered in the portal of the Church of Bethlehem on the corner of Carrer del Carme, not so much to shield myself from the bullets as to keep a discreet watch on things.

  And then I heard it coming.

  Growing more and more audible above the hissing of the bombs.

  Above the crackling of the flames.

  Above the moans of the dying.

  The sound of a galloping horse.

  I did not believe it until I had it in front of me: it was a galloping horse.

  A horse with no horseman. Pounding the ravaged streets, skirting the bodies and mutilated body parts that were strewn everywhere, jumping across the still-smoking craters caused by the explosions, traversing the streets at great speed.

  A powerful, swift-moving beast that advanced as though oblivious to the air attack and the demolition of the city. It was a magnificent animal, a great black creature with a powerful neck and back, a perfect belly, long legs that seemed to have been chiseled by the burin of an exceptional sculptor, and a mane and tail a dull shade of ebony that contrasted sublimely with the jet-black of its coat.

  As it passed, everything seemed to slow for a fraction of a second, as though even the turmoil of the air strike had been delayed to allow that improbable animal to flaunt itself, granting the dying that lay on the sidewalks one final, privileged sight before breathing their last.

  And then it moved in my direction.

  Its pace slowed from a gallop to a trot, and it began to circle around as though searching for something.