The Man Who Loved Dogs

by Leonardo Padura

  Jacques Mornard struggled to regain his routine. Every morning he said goodbye to Sylvia with the excuse that he was going to the office he told her he had opened in a suite of the Ermita building when, in reality, he only had a mailbox where, by arrangement, Tom would send the new instructions. Two and even three times a day he checked the mailbox and on each occasion left frustrated upon not finding new messages. He spent the rest of the day wandering around the city, but his spirits asked for some solitude that he could find only between the trees of the Chapultepec Forest.

  On various occasions, he accompanied Sylvia to the renegade’s fortress without expressing the desire to cross the threshold a single time. On the street, leaning against his Buick, he had long talks with the bodyguards. The one who most frequently came out to see him was the young Jake Cooper, always interested in the secrets of the stock market, to which the worldly Jacques Mornard was dedicated. In an almost imperceptible way, subjects like the European war, the Soviet annexation of the Baltic republics, the need for the United States to finally enter the war on the side of its British allies, filtered into their talks. To Jacques, the faith of those young men in their cloistered idol’s sermons was almost touching, and he even liked to hear them talk about the need to strengthen the Fourth International to promote a working class consciousness regarding the options for world revolution. To demonstrate an incipient sympathy for his friends’ political cause, Jacques proposed that they mention to their boss his willingness to carry out some operations in the stock market that, with his information and experience, could generate important gains that would economically help the Trotskyist International.

  When, on July 18, it was announced that thirty members of the Communist Party had been arrested as suspects for participating in the attack against the Exile, Jacques knew with certainty that his lucky date would be decided in the coming days. For that reason he wasn’t surprised when, the following morning, he found a note, unsigned, in his mailbox: “Since you like forests so much, shall we go for a walk today at four in the afternoon?”

  At three o’clock, Jacques had settled in beneath the cypresses in Chapultepec, ordered to be planted eighty years before by the ephemeral empress Carlota. From there, one could see the path that led to the overbearing summer palace of the emperor Maximilian and the road going down to the Paseo de la Reforma. His doubts had turned into anxiety and he had to rely on what Soldier 13 had learned in Malakhovka, to regain control of himself and feel ready for the conversation.

  At exactly four o’clock, he spied Tom. He was wearing a white shirt with a narrow collar from which a ridiculous polka-dotted handkerchief peeked out. From the path he made a signal and Jacques started moving.

  “They had to kill him,” he said without exchanging any greetings, his sight set on the curve in the road. Ramón remained silent, but all the alarms in his head rang. “His nerves failed him, he became aggressive, he wanted them to get him out of Mexico, he threatened to go to the police and say he had been kidnapped . . . The Mexicans were desperate and didn’t think about it too much. If you need it, I can give you my word that we had nothing to do with it. From the beginning, I told you that the American could be efficient, although he wasn’t trustworthy, but killing him . . .”

  Ramón thought for a few moments.

  “You don’t have to give me your word; I believe you,” he said, and realized how much he wanted to utter that phrase, and that doing so brought him patent relief.

  “We can’t wait anymore. While the Mexicans accuse each other and the police look for the French Jew, we’re going to finish this shit.”

  “When?”

  “Moscow wants it to happen as soon as possible. Hitler’s campaign in Europe has been a walk in the park and he is becoming more daring; he thinks he’s invincible.”

  Ramón looked at the cypress trees. Tom’s demands resounded in his stomach. The time for waiting and strategizing was behind him, the time for reality was beginning, and he immediately felt that he must carry a difficult and heavy load. Would he be able to move it after clamoring so much for that honor?

  “What’s the plan?” he managed to ask.

  “You have to see the Duck one or two more times. You will know how to do it. At those meetings you’re going to start to court him. The idea is for him to think he can convert you to Trotskyism. Without exaggerating, make him feel like you admire him. We’re going to exploit his vanity and his need to amass followers. When the opportunity presents itself, you tell him you’d like to write something about the situation in the world, something that occurred to you while talking to him. You’re going to prepare an article that will force him to work with you. The idea is for you to be alone with him in his study. If you manage that, the rest should be easy.”

  “Do you think he’ll want to receive me alone?”

  “You have to manage it. Your possibilities of escaping will be much greater. That day you’re going prepared to eliminate him and to use a weapon to escape if necessary.”

  “How many things should I enter with?”

  “A gun in case you need it. A knife for him.”

  Ramón thought for a few moments.

  “A knife would force me to cover his mouth, to grab him by the hair . . . I prefer the ice axe. Just one blow and I leave . . .”

  “You don’t want to touch him?” Tom smiled.

  “I prefer the ice axe,” Ramón replied, evasive.

  “Okay, okay . . . ,” the other one conceded. “That day Caridad and I will be with you. As soon as you step out onto the street and leave in your car, I’ll take care of the rest. Do you trust me?”

  He didn’t respond and Tom untied the handkerchief from his neck and dried his cheeks.

  “We’re going to put together a letter for you to drop when you leave. You’re going to be a disillusioned Trotskyist who has understood that his idol is no more than a puppet who, to return to power, has even been willing to place himself under Hitler’s command . . .”

  Ramón felt confused and Tom noticed that something wasn’t working right. Taking him by the chin, he forced him to turn around and look him in the eye and Ramón saw a glimmer of excitement.

  “Kid, we’re getting closer . . . It’s going to be us, you and me, the masters of glory. We have to prevent that son of a bitch from plotting with the Nazis. Always think that you’re working for history, that you’re going to execute the worst of all traitors, and remember that many men in the world need your sacrifice. The bravery, hate, and faith of Ramón Mercader have to sustain you. And if you can’t escape, I trust in your obedience and in your silence. It’s no longer your life or mine at play, but rather the future of the revolution and of the Soviet Union.”

  From his eyes, more than from his mentor’s words, Ramón received the message he needed. The doubts and fears of recent days began to disappear, as if that look had evaporated them, while he felt how his life got closer to its resounding culmination.

  The door of fate opened with one of Natalia Sedova’s ideas. In order to thank Jacson for his care with the Rosmers and his frequent gifts to Seva, the Trotskys invited him and Sylvia over for tea. They proposed the date of July 29, at four in the afternoon. In their room at the Montejo, Jacques reviewed the small notebook where he wrote down his business meetings and told Sylvia to call Natalia and tell her that they would be delighted to attend. The young woman’s face shone with excitement and she immediately ran to the phone to confirm the appointment.

  On the twenty-ninth, at exactly four in the afternoon, the Buick stopped in front of the fortress in Coyoacán. Jacques had put on a light cream summer suit, and Sylvia, despite the sun and the heat, had insisted on wearing black. She was nervous and happy, and had spent an hour in front of the mirror in a futile struggle to make her face pretty.

  Jake Cooper greeted them from the watchtower and Jacson joked that he would give him a tip if he took care of the car. The Mexican policeman smiled at him and Corporal Zacarias Osorio, the most senior amon
g the guards, practically bowed down to the guests. Harold Robbins opened the door to them and, as they talked, guided them to the forged-iron furniture that Natalia had placed in the yard, under the shade of the trees.

  When the hostess came out, they greeted her affectionately and the young man gave her the box of chocolates he had bought her. He learned that Seva, upon returning from school, had gone fishing in the river and that Azteca, as always, had gone with him.

  “Lev Davidovich asks your forgiveness,” Natalia Sedova said. “An emergency came up and he’s dictating some work he has to send tomorrow. He’ll come to say hello to you in a little bit.”

  Jacques smiled and discovered that he felt relieved. It didn’t bother him that the rhythm of penetration had to be slow, even when he knew that Tom needed him to act as soon as possible.

  After the Mexican servant placed the tea and cookies on the table (could she be the party comrade infiltrated into the house?), Natalia told them that they were worried by the lack of news from the Rosmers. With the Nazis in Paris, their friends’ situation was much compromised, and many times they feared the worst. Jacques nodded with his usual shyness and, following a silence that threatened to make itself infinite, made a comment about the weather.

  “It looks like this summer is going to be very hot, doesn’t it? I imagine you and Mr. Trotsky prefer the cold,” he said to Natalia.

  “When one starts getting old, the heat is a blessing. And we’ve experienced so much cold in our lives that this climate is a gift.”

  “So you wouldn’t like to return to Russia?”

  “What we like or don’t like hasn’t decided anything for a long time. We’ve spent eleven years wandering the world, without knowing how much time we can spend in one place or even if we will wake up the next day.” She pointed at the walls where the gunshot marks remained. “It’s very sad that a man like Lev Davidovich, who has done nothing in his life but fight for those who don’t have anything, has to live fleeing and hiding like a criminal . . .”

  Jacques nodded in agreement and, when he lifted his gaze, felt a jolt, for the Duck was approaching them. First his shadow and then his shape became visible.

  “Thank you very much for coming, Jacson. Hello, little Sylvia.”

  Jacques stood up with his hat in his hands, wondering whether he should or shouldn’t step forward and hold out his right hand. The Exile, who seemed distracted, walked to where Natalia was and the dilemma seemed resolved.

  “I am so very sorry, I regret not being able to accompany you. It’s that I have to finish an article today . . . Will you serve me tea, Natushka?”

  While Natalia served it, the man looked at his garden and smiled.

  “I’ve managed to save almost all the cacti. I have some very rare species. Those savages almost did away with them.”

  “Are you going to do new renovations after all?” Sylvia asked while their host drank his first sips of tea.

  “Natasha insists, but I can’t decide. If they wanted to come in again, they’re capable of blowing up a wall . . .”

  “I wouldn’t think that they would attack like that again,” Jacques said, and they all looked at him.

  The old man broke the silence. “What would you think, Jacson?”

  “I don’t know . . . a lone man. You yourself have written it: the NKVD has professional murderers . . .”

  The renegade looked at him with intensity, his cup frozen at chin height, and Ramón asked himself why he had said that. Was he scared? Did he want someone to stop him? He thought and always gave himself the same response: no. He had done it because he liked to use that power of playing with fates that were already decided.

  The renegade, after drinking a sip of tea, finally left his cup on the table and nodded.

  “You’re right, Jacson. A man like that could be unstoppable.”

  “Please, Liovnochek,” Natalia interrupted, trying to change the course of the unpleasant conversation.

  “Dear, we can’t be like ostriches,” he said, smiling, and observed his visitor. “Don’t smoke so much, Jacson. Take care of that marvelous youth you have.” And with a wave of his hand to indicate he was leaving them, he took the path leading to the dining room and from there added: “Don’t let him smoke, Sylvia. You can’t find a good man like that every day. Will you forgive me? Goodbye! . . .”

  Sylvia’s face reddened and Jacques smiled, also embarrassed. He crushed his cigarette and looked at Natalia, who seemed amused.

  Less tense already, Jacques Mornard told several stories about his Belgian family, brought to mind by the recollection of his father, a smoker of Cuban cigars. Natalia spoke of Lev Davidovich’s first exile in Paris and how they had met, and the three smiled hearing about the Exile’s observation that Paris was fine but Odessa was much more beautiful.

  “Mr. Trotsky should rest more,” Jacques remarked when the conversation was flagging. “He works too much.”

  “He’s not a normal person . . .” Natalia looked at the house before continuing. “Besides, we live off of what the newspapers pay. That’s what we’ve come to,” she finished, her voice thick with nostalgia and sadness.

  When the sun set, Jacson and Sylvia bid goodbye. Natalia again apologized for her husband and promised to find an opportune moment for another meeting. They had so few friends left, so few they received, and she would love to have them at the house again, of course with Lev Davidovich tied to a chair, she said, and shook Jacson’s hand and kissed Sylvia’s cheeks twice.

  When they returned to the hotel, Jacques found that Mr. Roberts had called him and was begging him to get in touch, urgently. From his room he asked for a number in New York and Roberts himself answered.

  “It’s Jacques, Mr. Roberts.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No. Talk to me.”

  “Come tomorrow. I’ll wait for you at eight o’clock at the Hotel Pennsylvania bar.”

  “Yes, tell Mr. Lubeck I’ll fly tomorrow . . . Thank you very much, Mr. Roberts.”

  Smiling, he turned to Sylvia and said to her:

  “We’re going to New York for a few days. Lubeck is paying.”

  The stay in New York ended up being brief and had precise goals: the time for preparations had ended and Moscow was demanding that the operation be carried out at the earliest opportunity, keeping in mind the progress of the war, which had already allowed Hitler to dominate Europe almost without shooting. The greatest novelty was that Mr. Roberts gave him a new raincoat that had three interior pockets of a very curious design.

  On August 7, Jacques and Sylvia settled in at the Hotel Montejo once more, and the following morning the young man ran out with the excuse that he had to see the contractors tasked with remodeling the offices. At the wheel of his Buick, he went in the direction of the tourist complex and looked for the unpaved road that he had traveled a few weeks before. The mound of porous rocks where he had left the ice axe was to the right of the path, and as he entered through the road he asked himself whether he hadn’t confused the place, since according to his calculations, the rocks were two or three minutes from the highway, and he had already gone for more than five and he still had not located them. He thought of going back and confirming that it was the right road, although he was sure it was. Anxiety began to overcome him, and to calm down he told himself that in any store in the city he could buy a similar ice axe. But not finding that exact ice axe seemed like a disastrous omen. Where could the fucking rocks be? He continued on and, when he was ready to turn around, discovered the pile and breathed in relief. He climbed the rocks and saw the metallic shine. When he managed to take the ice axe out and have it in his hands, he felt something visceral unite him to that steel weapon, and the act of holding it gave him confidence and certainty.

  Back in the city, he parked his car in front of a carpenter’s shop in the Colonia Roma and asked the salesclerk to saw off about six inches from the ice axe’s wooden grip. The man looked at him strangely and he explained that he felt s
afer climbing with a shorter grip. Twine in hand, the man measured the six inches Ramón had indicated, made a mark in pencil, and returned it to him to confirm whether that length was more comfortable for him. Ramón took the ice axe and made a gesture as if he were driving it into a rock over his head.

  “No, it’s still too long. Cut it around here,” he said, and pointed to the place.

  The carpenter shop salesclerk shrugged his shoulders, walked over to a saw, and sawed the wood. With a piece of sandpaper he smoothed the edges and handed the ice axe to Ramón.

  “How much is it?”

  “It’s nothing, señor.”

  Ramón put his hand in his pocket and withdrew two pesos.

  “That’s too much, señor.”

  “My boss is paying. And thank you.” He said goodbye.

  “Climbing with a grip that short is dangerous, señor. If you slip . . .”

  “Don’t worry, comrade,” he said and lifted the ice axe to eye level. “Now it looks like a cross, right?” And without waiting for a response, he walked to the corner where he had left the Buick, out of the carpenter’s sight.

  He went in the direction of Chapultepec and entered the forest. From the car’s trunk, he withdrew the bag where he kept the khaki-colored raincoat that Tom had given him in New York and dropped the ice axe into it. He walked between the trees until he found a place where he assumed no one would see him and put on the raincoat. On the left side, below the waist, they had sewn a long narrow lining, almost in the shape of a knife. At stomach height, on the same side, was a smaller pocket designed to hold a medium-caliber revolver. On the right side, running from the armpit, was the third lining, triangle-shaped, with the narrowest angle below. Ramón placed the ice axe in the pocket and confirmed that, with the trimmed grip, it sank farther than he considered comfortable for rapid extraction. He verified, nonetheless, that if he kept his hands crossed over his abdomen, his own right arm hid the weapon’s lump, and that was the most important thing. He placed the raincoat over his forearm and noticed that the depth of the pocket prevented any movement. He carried out several tests and concluded that if the renegade had his back to him, he could extract the ice axe in just a few seconds without taking his eyes off his objective.