Blood Crime

by Sebastia Alzamora

  “Deaaad!” droned the ghostly Sister Encarnació.

  Sister Concepció summoned her willpower and decided to take a look in the pigsty. She walked haltingly toward it, making her way little by little, as though entering a sick person’s room. She glanced at the feeding troughs first and saw only the slop that, every morning before prayers, Sister Encarnació fed the two pigs that Manuel Escorza had delivered to the convent, to be slaughtered over the winter. The actual slaughter would be a task for Sirga, and afterward the sisters would prepare the meat and make the sausages. Sister Concepció had never dirtied her hands during the yearly pig slaughter, but Sister Encarnació had already announced that, when the day came, she would teach her how to cut, mince, mix, fill and sew the casings.

  She entered the pen, treading carefully because the timid light of dawn was not sufficient to illuminate the place and the floor was slippery from the mixture of hay and excrements that covered it. She was surprised not to hear any noise or grunts: the pigs were unusually silent. Outside, the nuns continued clamoring around Sister Encarnació.

  The novice waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the penumbra and then discovered that the hay and excrements were not the only substance scattered across the pigpen. All around there were dark puddles of sludge, a mixture of muck and blood that had also splattered the walls and was dribbling to the ground, forming a design that recalled a kind of macabre calligraphy.

  When she finally saw them a chill ran up and down her spine: the pigs lay on a bed of straw, limbs disjointed, eyes glassy. Dead, as Sister Encarnació breathlessly repeated. Their necks and guts were ravaged, as though the animals had been attacked by a wild beast capable of jumping the five-meter wall around the convent and slipping inside the pen to quench its thirst and hunger.

  “Hey. Hey.”

  “Mmm . . .”

  “Wake up. Open your eyes. Hey.”

  “Mmm? Where . . . ?”

  “Over here. Open your eyes.”

  “Where . . . am I?”

  “In the clink. Wake up, little priest. I got news you’ll like.”

  Brother Pau Darder rubbed his eyes and opened them. The first thing he saw was a pock-marked face belonging to Sirga, who was sitting on the straw mattress beside him. He spotted the chamber pot in one corner of the cell, by the candle nub that was leaning against the wall. Then, in front of him, the iron-bar door. Then, the empty pots of garbanzos and water. His slumber had been devoid of dreams, and waking again inside that den, Sirga’s repulsive face so close to his own, made him feel the most miserable of men.

  “I’m hungry. I’m thirsty,” he murmured, like a sick person regaining consciousness.

  Sirga grinned. “Sorry to hear that, little priest; I’m afraid I forgot to bring you a snack. At least I hope you slept comfortably—you can’t take issue with the bed, now, can you?”

  Brother Darder tightened his grip around the medal of Saint Michael that he held in his right fist. “So you’ve come to mock me, then,” he gasped, sitting up on the cot.

  “No,” said Sirga. “I’ve already told you, I have news that will bring you great joy. Your uncle, the one who was mayor of Palma, is dead.”

  Brother Darder felt his entire body tense up. He heard the voice inside his head: Emili will bring shame on his family.

  “He was executed by firing squad,” Sirga added. “The fascists’ doing—your people’s doing, that is. Congratulations, little priest.”

  Without another word, Sirga rose from the cot, walked to the metal door, opened it and then closed it behind him with a violent clang that ricocheted through the emptiness of the cell.

  “Wait!” Brother Darder called after him, but Sirga was no longer listening. No one was.

  He stood and started pacing the length of his cell, faster and faster. He was trying to remember his uncle, but the only thing that came to mind was a strange figure seemingly molded in ice: transparent and unsteady, colorless, odorless, mute. The image of Uncle Emili, dead. Murdered, like Brother Pere Gendrau. The two men who had been father figures to him: one killed by one faction, the other by its foe. And his biological father, Don Gabriel: long dead, not in the war but from life itself. Pawns fallen off the board, puppets no longer of any use in the game plotted by God the Creator.

  And his mother? Was she still alive? Yes, it was quite possible she was; after all, in the midst of chaos, the simple-minded are more likely to survive, as they are better able to adapt to folly and senselessness.

  If God so deems it . . . he could hear her whispering in his ear.

  And Brother Darder had to admit that he would have given anything to hear from his mother’s lips those words of utter resignation that had once displeased him. Yes, he would have given anything to be by her side, embrace her, and let her know that he was also alive, that he would protect her and keep her safe. That he was a man now, capable of making his own decisions, and he didn’t need a tutor to attend to his future. That he was responsible for himself and his mother and would remain firm in his determination however much the world around him insisted on falling to pieces until it was transformed into a different, nameless landscape full of rubble and debris. “If God so deems it . . .” would chirp his mother, self-satisfied, in her singsong voice.

  Brother Darder would not have known how to respond now; he had learned that God’s views were no more relevant than rat’s carrion.

  He looked out the window at the filth piling up in the street. He was hungry and thirsty. He had to get out of there.

  “You can go in now. Don Aureli is expecting you in his office.”

  The secretary, a ruddy-faced girl not yet twenty-five, smiled at Brothers Lacunza and Plana and at Adjutant Émile Aragou, who was guarding with both hands the calfskin satchel that rested on his knees. The three religious rose from the faux-leather armchairs and followed the secretary down a corridor inside the Generalitat de Catalunya’s Department of Investigations and Patrols. The girl proceeded at a quick trot, like a ballerina about to perform a dance step. When they were in front of the door to Don Aureli’s office, the secretary, dutiful, tapped on it with her knuckles and gently opened it.

  “Good day and welcome, senyors,” exclaimed Aureli Fernández, as he approached the three Marists and cheerfully shook their hands.

  “A pleasure to see you again,” came another greeting, this one in a mocking tone, from the depths of the office. All three men immediately recognized the voice: it was Gil Portela, ensconced in a beige velvet armchair and smoking a cigar.

  “I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” retorted Brother Lacunza. Gil Portela looked him over as though taking his measurements.

  Aureli Fernández thought it a good idea to intervene. “Pay no heed,” he said, resting his hand on Brother Lacunza’s shoulders in a conciliatory manner. “I realize you gentlemen had some sort of . . . disagreement at the Tostadero meeting, but there’ll be no hiccups now.”

  “It’s just that our brothers here are so very witty,” quipped Gil Portela.

  “I wouldn’t describe what took place as a mere disagreement,” responded Brother Lacunza, ignoring Gil Portela. “What can you tell us about Brother Darder?”

  Aureli Fernández and Gil Portela exchanged a glance.

  “He’s in a good place, safe and sound,” responded Aureli Fernández, unfazed. “We’ll discuss it all now. Sit, please.”

  He pointed to a sofa upholstered in the same beige velvet as the armchair. Brother Lacunza noted that the room was furnished with as much luxury as bad taste; nevertheless, Aureli Fernández (Don Aureli, his secretary had called him), had an agreeable disposition and gave off a cordiality that appeared sincere. He was smartly dressed and had an easy, appreciative smile, his gestures reflecting a decisive nature that conveyed self-assurance and inspired trust. He waited for the three Marists to be seated on the sofa before he settled himself on a leather arm
chair behind an oversized desk. Brother Lacunza noticed the two flags to Don Aureli’s left: the Catalan flag and the red-and-black emblem of the anarcho-syndicalists. Aureli Fernández drummed his fingers on the table and began: “I think we can come straight to the point. Senyor Escorza and Senyor Ordaz have filled me in on the Tostadero meeting and the terms and conditions that were negotiated.”

  It was Aureli Fernández’s attempt to diminish Manuel Escorza’s standing and present himself to the Marists as the highest authority they could appeal to. Gil Portela gave him a look of disapproval but also of commiseration. Meanwhile, Brother Plana shifted nervously in his seat on the sofa and Adjutant Aragou clutched his brown leather bag as though he had been shipwrecked and it was a float. Brother Lacunza was trying to capture every detail.

  “I’m pleased to inform you,” continued Aureli Fernández, “that a couple of days ago, the FAI’s Investigations Committee sent confirmation that they have accepted your proposal.” He smiled again and opened his arms like a magician who had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

  “Excellent news,” murmured Brother Lacunza.

  “No need to thank me.” Aureli Fernández tilted his head a little. “The whole matter is of great interest to both parties, as I’m sure you understand . . .”

  “Of course,” said Gil Portela from his armchair, which seemed to be spewing smoke from all sides. “Especially for you, hermanos. Was the Frenchie’s trip profitable? He better have returned with the money, don’t want you thinking it was easy to grant him safe passage through La Jonquera without getting himself clipped . . .”

  It was true. However legitimate the whole thing was, checkpoint patrols had a hard time believing a priest would be in possession of a safe-passage to reach France; they suspected the document was forged. Gil Portela had had to keep a constant watch on Adjuntant Aragou to ensure he wasn’t killed at one of the stops.

  “Let’s watch our tone, please,” said Aureli Fernández. The comment was intended for Gil Portela, who appeared to be enjoying the situation. “If it’s all right with you, gentlemen, let’s talk specifics. The agreed-upon sum is two hundred thousand French francs. Are you in a position to satisfy that amount?”

  All eyes turned to Adjutant Aragou; seated at the tip of the sofa, he appeared to be shrinking. “The money . . . is . . . is here,” he stuttered, lifting the brown leather bag with shaky hands. “It’s all here.”

  “Let’s count it,” exclaimed Gil Portela, rising and reaching out his arms for the bag.

  “Not yet,” Brother Lacunza said, grasping the satchel by the handle. “First, we need the hostage to be returned. Where is Brother Darder?”

  “I’m afraid you haven’t understood how this works, hermanos,” said Gil Portela, stressing each syllable, annoyed.

  “If your aim is to pull a handgun on us,” Brother Lacunza said, defiant, “I must say it will take more than that to intimidate us. We’ve gotten used to it.”

  Gil Portela removed the cigar from his mouth and leaned forward, as though he were about to rise. “I’m getting tired of all this posturing.”

  “Enough,” ordered Aureli Fernández, and Gil Portela grudgingly fell back. “Brother Darder will be reunited with you on the day of the evacuation. Safe and sound, as I said earlier. But it will be on the day of the departure, not before that. Now you must hand over the money. If you would, senyor . . .”

  “Aragou,” the adjutant supplied.

  “That’s it. Please hand the bag over to Senyor Gil Portela so he can verify the contents.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourselves, gentlemen,” Brother Lacunza intervened. “The first half, now, the second half the day of the evacuation. If we can’t have the hostage, you can’t expect us to hand over the entire amount now.”

  Aureli Fernández stiffened behind his desk. Brother Plana went pale. Gil Portela made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  “Two thirds now, the rest, the day of the departure,” Aureli Fernández finally said, trying to appear firm.

  “Half and half,” insisted Brother Lacunza.

  “I don’t advise this kind of stubbornness, hermanos,” said Gil Portela, feigning indifference. “Frankly, you have much more to lose here than we do.”

  Adjutant Aragou clutched the bag as a child would a toy. Brother Plana took Brother Lacunza by the arm, as though imploring him to yield.

  “Senyor Gil Portela is right,” declared Aureli Fernández. “Do as you please.”

  Brother Lacunza scanned the room and read the intimidation in Adjutant Aragou’s eyes and the anguish in Brother Plana’s. And he gave in. “All right then, two thirds up front.”

  “Much better,” said Aureli Fernández, relieved. “The bag, please.”

  “One moment,” the Marist said. “Brother Aragou, please open the bag and divide the money into thirds yourself.”

  “But . . . what does this mean?” asked Aureli Fernández, growing impatient.

  Gil Portela huffed, as though none of it had anything to do with him.

  “Go ahead, Brother Aragou,” instructed Brother Lacunza.

  Adjutant Aragou unfastened the buckles, zipped open the bag, slipped his hands in, and began to remove wads of bills held together with elastic bands. He licked the tip of his thumb and index finger and counted the money with the skill of a seasoned banker. He did not raise his head for even an instant. When he finished, he set aside a stack of bills and slipped the rest inside the bag, which he handed over to Brother Lacunza. Lacunza rose, walked over to the armchair where Gil Portela was seated, and offered him the brown leather bag. The goon grabbed it with both hands, his eyes on the Marist’s strained face.

  “Check to see if it’s all there, if you want,” said Brother Lacunza.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Aureli Fernández. “Sit back down, please.”

  Brother Lacunza obeyed. Once seated, he turned to Aragou. “Anything else regarding the money, brother?”

  “Well,” the adjutant said, “there is still the question of banking controls . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Aureli Fernández, seemingly revived. He addressed Gil Portela: “Let’s be sure to call the Ministry so they’ll take care of it as soon as possible. Agreed?”

  “Should I speak with Tarradellas?”

  Aureli Fernández made a gesture of discomfort. “No, not him. I’ll inform the minister myself,” he lied, Escorza being his only contact. “On the contrary, don’t even mention Tarradellas or use his name under any circumstances, understood?”

  “Understood, Senyor Secretary General, understood,” Girl Portela mocked him, as he grasped the bag and made as if to leave; before stepping outside the office, however, he turned to the Marists: “You’ll see, hermanos, everything will go smooth as silk.” He slammed the door on his way out, leaving behind him a frayed trail of smoke.

  Aureli Fernández recovered his most comforting smile. “Please excuse his rough ways. Comrade Gil Portela might be a bit brusque, but he’s a good comrade.”

  “We have no doubt about it,” sighed Brother Lacunza, beginning to feel more at ease. “May I ask what your plan is for the evacuations?”

  Aureli Fernández again drummed his fingers on the table to the rhythm in his head. “That’s not your concern,” he said. “The Department of Investigations will take care of the logistics. What we need to know is how many people we are talking about here so we can calculate the number of trucks that will be needed, as well as the water and food provisions.”

  “We have circulated an announcement to let the brothers decide if they want to accept the evacuation offer. It’s not an easy task because the community is scattered and we have no way of reaching certain people. But, in any event, we will be closing the list in a couple of days and will be able to give you an exact headcount.”

  “Excellent. We’ll continue to work on est
ablishing the fastest, safest route through La Jonquera with the information we receive from the front.”

  “When will the students and seminarians be able to leave Casa de les Avellanes?” inquired Aragou, recovering some of his poise. “They are in dire need.”

  “As soon as we have cleared up the bank issue. I’m guessing in three or four days. In the meantime, Comrade Gil Portela will expedite the processing of departure permits.”

  A morose silence came over the office, as if each of the four men had withdrawn into his own thoughts. Brother Lacunza shuffled his feet, unable to conceal his impatience; Adjutant Aragou rested his eyes on the anarchist flag; Brother Plana remained mum and grew paler and paler. Finally, Aureli Fernández clapped his hands and declared the meeting over.

  “Very well, gentlemen, it appears that, at the moment, that is all there is to discuss. We will be in touch over the next few days and we will make sure that everything proceeds as swiftly as possible.” He paused, looked at Brother Lacunza, and added: “You have nothing to fear. Everything will be all right. You have my word.”

  September 29, 1936

  Orders issued by Manuel Escorza of the

  inbestigaiton services CNT—FAI.

  As per the comuniqué, a raide and arrests were made at Calle Valencia 225 following a report that some Carlists were using it as a hyding place.

  We aperhended the owner of the house, the lawyer Joaquin de bruguera de Sarriera, 52 years of age, we also detained the others who had takin shelter there Roberto Llanza de Bruguera, 17, the lawyer Jose Benito de alas de Mateo, 52, the lawyer Francisco Javier de alas, 55, former Marquis of Dou. Our Squads had already informed us they were on this individual’s trale since he fled his house on Calle Baja de San Pedro 29-31 which had already been siezed last July.

  I hereby order a trip to the montcada cematary for the 7 deetanees in the San Elias stationhouse, on the wey back we shall deliver 4 of them to the glue Factory.

  Manuel Escorza reread the search and arrest warrant, which he had penned himself, and was about to stamp his signature on it when someone knocked on the glass pane of the door to his office.