He remembered Brother Plana’s ridiculous face as he came into his room in Pension Capell to ask him to again hear his confession of having taken a sweet potato from the pantry. Brother Plana who must have already collected his thirty pieces of silver. War created no heroes—only traitors. War was a great rubbish-filled courtyard crawling with rats that devoured each other alive.
He wanted to head to the Capuchin convent, arrive in time to expose and publicly shame Brother Plana before he was killed. Had an evacuation finally been negotiated? It was hard to believe that Brother Lacunza and Adjutant Aragou could have been so naive. Had they paid money to be led to their deaths?
He wanted to head to the Capuchin convent, but instead he wandered like a lost soul through the narrow streets of Barri Gòtic. He still had that sticky paste in his mouth and his innards churned from thirst and hunger. He was exhausted and debated between walking to Sarrià or simply lying down in some corner and letting himself die.
Comrades, Visca la Revolució.
He entered a particularly long and narrow street and came to a building with a great façade and a limestone portal with large wooden doors, the Republican flag flying above it. A public building. mortuary, read the plaque on one side of the door, above smaller lettering he could not decipher because his vision blurred.
It seemed like a good idea.
He sat by the door, rested his head on a stone ledge, and fell asleep a few seconds later.
He couldn’t tell how long he had slept when he felt someone shaking him by the shoulders, waking him up.
He half opened his eyes and saw a large bespectacled man crouching over him. The smoke from the man’s cigarette hit him in the face.
“Hola,” said the man. “Aren’t you the Marist brother from Pension Capell, the Majorcan? I’m Doctor Humbert Pelllicer. I was at the pension to oversee the removal of the bodies. Can you hear me?”
“I killed a man,” responded Brother Darder, feeling his head bobbing from side to side.
“So, then,” said the mother abbess, “my brother hasn’t mentioned the presence of His Excellency the bishop here at the convent?”
Superintendent Muñoz arched his eyebrows in surprise, his gaze hardening. His reaction did not go unnoticed by the mother abbess, who was seated in front of him at the great table in the chapterhouse. Sirga, standing in front of the solid wood door to the chapterhouse in his police uniform, also took notice.
The superintendent, however, had no intention of concealing his feelings. “What bishop are you referring to? And who exactly is this brother of yours?”
The mother abbess took a hand to her mouth, as though to prevent what she was about to say from being heard. “Good God. You know nothing.” She lowered her eyes and for a moment it seemed she was about to weep.
The superintendent turned to Sirga, who looked away, trying to appear undaunted. “What is it, Mother Abbess?” he said impatiently. “What do I not know?”
The mother abbess brushed her brow with the tips of her fingers. “My secular name is Isabel Escorza. My brother is Manuel Escorza, and, for reasons unknown to me, he is forcing me to keep His Excellency Monsignor Gabriel Perugorría, bishop of Barcelona, hidden away in this convent.”
The superintendent was silent. The mousetrap was far more poisoned than he had imagined. Like in his dream, he had entered a shack in the middle of the night only to discover that he was naked, the shack infested with people who were mocking him.
“You were aware of all this, Sirga?” he inquired without turning around.
“No . . . absolutely not, senyor. I—”
“Of course you were,” said the mother abbess, her voice trembling with rage and bewilderment. “He was the one who—”
“Damn you, nun!” shouted Sirga, putting his hand on his gun holster.
It only took a second. A shot like a clap of thunder rang out inside the chapterhouse, its jagged echo muffling the knife-sharp scream the mother abbess’s let out. Sirga staggered, then fell with his back against the doorframe, one hand on his stomach, the other still intimating the motion of drawing his gun. Standing by the table, the superintendent was holding his own weapon, the barrel still smoking.
“Dammit,” he sighed. “What a lousy, rotten mess.”
He kicked away the chair that had toppled when he stood up, and he walked over to Sirga, still pointing his gun at him. The mother abbess had started weeping, disconsolate. Muñoz saw the blood oozing through Sirga’s fingers as he clutched at his ruptured abdomen. A small puddle of urine was forming on the tiles beneath the officer.
“Oh God,” moaned Sirga, his cheeks wet with tears.
“Shut up, you idiot,” the superintendent cut him off.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” cried the mother abbess, her voice breaking.
The superintendent looked at her. “You’re an expert in these matters,” he said. “Say a prayer for his soul.”
Sirga was trembling like an infant waking from a bad dream. Muñoz knelt beside him and, taking care not to soil himself in the puddle of urine, he put his arms around Sirga so that the man’s head rested against the superintendent’s leg. Moving him caused him to moan with pain, and Muñoz could hear a gurgling rattle in his throat. He pressed the barrel of his gun against Sirga’s chest, aiming at his heart. The sound of the shot was muffled this time. Muñoz released his embrace and stood up again, as Sirga’s dead body slid to the floor.
“What a horrid war,” he said in a resigned tone, as though complaining about the weather.
The mother abbess was leaning against the display cabinet that housed the clay urns, whimpering. She looked at him, her eyes filled with horror.
“I have only spared him some suffering,” said the superintendent. “If I had not done this he would have agonized for hours. I am very sorry you had to witness it, but it was either him or us.”
“Oh God. Oh, my God,” the woman repeated again and again, lost in her litany.
The superintendent snorted, annoyed. “I could use some help, but it doesn’t seem we can count on your God very much, does it? Where is the bishop?”
The mother abbess took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. “I don’t know,” she answered between sobs. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday at dusk. Perhaps in his cell, or in the chapel . . .”
“Please listen to me, senyora,” interrupted the officer. “We must get out of here as soon as possible, before the militia squad sent by your brother gets here and kills us all. There is no time to waste. Have all the nuns gather in the cloister. I’ll locate the bishop.”
“Superintendent,” said the mother abbess, drying her face with a kerchief, “there is still something about His Excellency that you don’t know. He . . .”
“It will have to wait until after we have left, ma’am. We must act swiftly. Do you understand? Round up the sisters and meet me in the courtyard in five minutes. Which way to the chapel?”
“Where is Adjutant Aragou?” asked Brother Lacunza, a bump in the road making him shift in his seat. “And what’s the latest on Brother Darder?”
“The adjutant is riding in another car with comrades Escorza and Gil Portela,” lied Brother Plana, who was sitting beside him rubbing his sweaty hands. “Brother Darder is on one of the buses. We will all meet up at the Capuchin convent. Am I right, comrades?”
“That’s right, comrade!” shouted Antoni Ordaz from the driver’s seat, and he burst out laughing. He found it amusing to be addressed as comrade by that pompous Marist. In the copilot’s seat, Aureli Fernández was quiet. He would have liked for things to unfold differently, but Escorza had managed to convince Minister Tarradellas, and even President Companys, to turn a blind eye on the operation. He must remain silent and follow orders, he had no other choice. War, after all, had its own logic.
Brother Lacunza, in the back seat, did not look much better.
Disguised as a patrolman—leather jacket, corduroy trousers, militiaman’s cap, espadrilles fastened with a black ribbon, a red-and-black scarf—he cut a grotesque image, thought Fernández, and this opinion was only reinforced by the sight of Brother Plana, who was dressed in the same attire and looked just as ridiculous. Who were they trying to fool? Any dimwit could see they were no anarchists. But Ordaz had insisted on this attire; he said it might ease things at the border. He wanted to avoid what had happened with the first group, he said. Brother Lacunza still fumed every time he thought about it; more and more he was beginning to doubt the FAI’s word. He had a terrible foreboding and was tortured by the thought that he might be leading one hundred and seventy-two brothers from the community into a death trap. But he soothed himself by thinking of the seminarians from Balaguer whom he had managed to get across the border in the first evacuation. He had received news of the boys’ reunion with their families. He had imagined motherly hugs, tears of joy, and he had been thankful that everything had ended well for them.
Their car had just started up Major de Sarrià, which meant they were nearing the convent. The car with Manuel Escorza and Gil Portela and—according to Brother Plana—Adjutant Aragou, must already be there. Behind them were the buses transporting the brothers: those who had not been able to cross into France during the first expedition, those still living at Pension Capell, and those who had answered the call that had been put out from various towns around Barcelona. They would gather at the convent, do a head count, climb back onto the buses, and begin their journey to the border at La Jonquera. Everything should be fine. Everything would be fine.
“Comrade Fernández,” said Brother Lacunza.
“Yes?”
“The two of you sure are looking like proper comrades, hermanos!” Antoni Ordaz interrupted, laughing again. “Starting to enjoy our revolutionary mission, huh?”
“That’s enough, dammit,” said Aureli Fernández. Ordaz immediately fell silent. “Go on, brother.”
“You gave us your word.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your word, Comrade Fernández. The day we made the payment you gave us your word that everything would go smoothly. Are you prepared to give it again now?”
Aureli Fernández took a deep breath. With his eyes on the hood of the car, he replied, “I don’t see why I should. If I gave my word, that should suffice.”
“You gave us your word and the first evacuation did not go according to plan. Give us your word that everything will go well this time, comrade.”
Antoni Ordaz gave Aureli Fernández a sidelong look and saw that he was clenching his teeth. Fernández turned around; speaking slowly, he said: “Everything will go well, brother. You have my word.”
Brother Lacunza nodded. He did not notice that Brother Plana had turned away and was looking out the car window. Farther ahead, at the top of the hill they were now ascending, the walls that encircled the grounds of the Capuchin convent of the Desert of Sarrià were beginning to come into view. The day was bright, the skies clear and limpid after the recent rains.
“I cannot find the bishop anywhere. I searched the cells, the refectory, and the chapel, but there is no one there. Where else should I look?”
Superintendent Muñoz was coming from the refectory hall and had just stepped into the courtyard off the cloister where the nuns had assembled following the mother abbess’s orders. There was Sister Ascensió with her blotchy skin and Sister Adoració holding her cane—both of them centenarians. There were also Sisters Benedicció, Dormició, and Visitació, looking beatific in their obesity. There was Sister Encarnació, who had a bad presentiment, her fingers compulsively telling the beads of her rosary. The mother abbess had given them no explanation, yet every one of them understood something extraordinary was unfolding, as on the day of the false arrests, when the mummies had been dug up. The superintendent considered the twenty-seven religious and wondered what he was to do with them. But, more than anything else, it was imperative that he find Monsignor Perugorría.
The mother abbess looked pained; she took the superintendent by the arm and led him a few steps away from the group.
“We are missing someone too,” she said, lowering her voice. “Sister Concepció; she is a novice, a girl of thirteen.”
“And why is she not here, this Sister Concepció?” asked the superintendent, also whispering but making no attempt to hide his disgruntlement. “Do you know where she is?”
The mother abbess looked like she was about to resume her weeping. “With His Excellency the bishop, I suppose. It’s what I was trying to tell you earlier.”
The mother abbess continued to whisper for a couple of minutes, as the nuns sat motionless in the sun and the superintendent’s face deepened in color as though a bonfire were starting to burn at his feet.
“I will find them,” he said. “Wait here with the sisters and be ready to depart at once. Do not take anything with you, no objects or clothes. We will need to move fast.”
He left the courtyard taking big strides, practically running, intent on further inspecting the premises. A perturbed bishop in the habit of chasing after little girls—that was just what he needed. He reached the pigpen and peered inside. There was no one there, but he saw the animals’ blood still darkening the walls. So it was true, something had happened there. He would question the mother abbess about it after they had left. It had probably been another courteous attempt of her brother Manuel’s to summon him to the convent along with Sirga. But why would Escorza go to such trouble? His thinking was fired up with intuitions and half-formed ideas, but he could not thread them together.
He inspected the toolshed and took a look inside the stone oven, troubled by the thought that he might discover Sister Concepció’s remains. But there was nothing there. For some reason, he could not banish from his mind the image of the little boy murdered near Pension Capell. He arrived at the laundry facility and he found only washbasins, bars of soap, and linens hung out to dry.
He backtracked, running this time. He had to find them at once. Sirga’s tears as he understood he was dying came into his mind. Poor idiot. It wasn’t the first time he had killed a man, but that thought did nothing to ease his conscience. He felt terrible. Dirty, debased. What would his mother say if she knew? He hadn’t joined the police force to kill men, but to prevent them from being killed. But it seemed it could not be avoided. Did every person have a killer inside them? He had to find the bishop and the novice before Escorza’s men arrived at the convent to check whether Sirga had carried out his orders.
He went down to the woodshed; there was no one there either, only the mice scurrying to hide behind the wood.
He knew what he had to do. He would leave with the nuns, the bishop—the whole lot—and escort them to parliament. There he would request the protection of the Generalitat government until things calmed down. Crossing the entire city would be no easy task with that flock in tow, but at least he knew where he needed to go to avoid having himself and the nuns executed in a corner up on Montjuïc or on the Arrabassada.
He reached the door to the cellar and had to crouch in order to enter. He glimpsed the dark stairs, the uneven steps. From the penumbra suddenly came a moan that sounded like a wounded dog.
He gripped his gun and slowly descended a few steps, holding his breath. The sound stopped but started again a few seconds later, no longer a dog’s whimper but a voice that was saying something. A small, weak, little girl’s voice. He stopped and listened more intently.
Stabat mater dolorosa
Iuxta crucem . . .
He was able to make out the words, but then the voice broke and gave way to moaning. Was it moaning or weeping?
He descended four more steps, then the stairs spiraled, then he saw them. A large, heavyset man atop a herring barrel, wearing a clerical robe that fell on either side of the barrel like drapes. Cornered against the w
all in front of him, a girl was crying, her face buried in her hands. She was completely naked, her thighs covered with blood.
•••
“Good morning, little sister! Well, well, it looks like there’s a community meeting here. I hope we are not interrupting!”
Manuel Escorza strode into the cloister with the nonchalance of someone paying a courtesy call. Despite his crutches and boot lifts, he was surprisingly nimble; Gil Portela, walking beside him, quickened his pace in order to keep up. Three militiamen armed with rifles and looking rather hung over followed behind. Lined up in the center of the courtyard, the Capuchin nuns observed the men’s arrival with curiosity, but without apprehension. The mother abbess, on the other hand, looked like she had seen a ghost.
“What are you doing here?”
The militiamen and Gil Portela stopped beneath the arcade in the cloister. Manuel Escorza continued on to the courtyard, propelling himself on his crutches until he was standing in front of his sister.
“I’ve only come to make sure you were all right, little sister,” he replied with that contorted smile of his. “Strange things are going on in this convent . . . By the way, a group of friends we have unfinished business with are about to arrive any minute now. I’m afraid it’ll be a bit noisy for a while. But tell me: Are you well, little sister? Everything all right?”
“A group of friends? What are you talking about, Manuel?”
Like a drying stain, Manuel Escorza’s smile shrank until it finally disappeared. “You don’t seem very glad to see me, little sister. Frankly, I was expecting a warmer welcome. Aren’t you pleased with the men I sent you?”
“The men?” stuttered the mother abbess, barely able to speak.
“Yes, Sirga and a police superintendent who is a prime example of diligence and uprightness, little sister.” He smiled again. “Why aren’t they here with you? Have they solved the mystery of the pigs?”
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