It was about then that Joxe Mari had his first thoughts about what it was like to shoot another person. Sometimes they’d shoot a cat. But a human being is something else. And he whispered to Jokin: can you imagine? A thought like that never passed through Jokin’s head. The pellet gun was for having fun, he said. He would dream about getting older and hunting with a more powerful weapon, not to shoot at little birds or cats but wild pigs and deer. He dreamed about going on a safari in Africa.
As he talked about all that, the two of them hidden behind some bushes, Joxe Mari aimed at the house owner who was cutting the grass on the hill in front of them with a sack over his head to protect him from the rain. Joxe Mari pressed his finger against the trigger and imagined the house owner suddenly falling forward badly wounded and rolling down the hill. Jokin said in a low voice that weapons aren’t toys. How old could they be then, sixteen? Not older. At night he dreamed that a patrol car with sirens blasting came looking for him because he killed a policeman, and many years later, his eyes fixed on the ceiling of his cell, he remembered the scene with the homeowner.
35
A BOX OF FLAMES
On the counter: one row of different-colored piggy banks and another with photos of jailed militants, the pad with tickets for the raffle with a mariskada as a prize, and to one side, along the wall, the display of key holders, lighters, flags, scarves, and other things. The two friends waited in a tavern on Juan de Bilbao Street, sitting in the back, almost in the dark, abstaining from alcohol. Jokin asked the barmaid with short, straight bangs who was nodding her head to the music for a glass of tap water and she gave it to him.
Every few seconds Joxe Mari glanced at his watch. And Koldo, where the hell was he? Jokin amused himself turning the pages of Egin. The tavern was half empty. All the abertzale boys shouted slogans at the demonstration about the recent capture of a cell. Also, the village cohort, which had moved to San Sebastián as if on the way to war, because no matter how you look at it this is a war. Or a conflict or whatever you’d like to call it. And with the cohort went Koldo, who’d been ordered to join his two friends as soon as the first demonstrators reached the Bulevar, where the usual ritual would be carried out. A member of the Herri Batasuna National Committee would stand in the music kiosk and read a communiqué and at a given moment two men wearing hoods would step up to burn a Spanish flag. Meanwhile, the six members from the village would carry out their action in another part of the city, not far from there. That’s what they’d been getting ready for since yesterday evening.
They were nervously waiting for Koldo, not drinking a drop of alcohol. Others drink to get courage, but they have conviction and discipline. Botching the job was improper for Basques (Joxe Mari). Fear, for anyone who needs it (Jokin).
Koldo, Koldito, come a-running if you have to, but don’t let us down. Why all the hurry? Because they didn’t want the jarraitxus from Rentería to beat them to the punch. It happened once before that those guys were quicker on the draw than they were and they got all the praise. So what? Well, they just set fire to a new launch worth more than twenty million pesetas, a Mercedes, and that will really put a dent in the municipal treasury. And they had to settle for an old, broken-down Pegaso, which burns much worse and doesn’t cost the Town Council even half what the Mercedes costs. On top of that we saved them the costs of having the thing junked.
Koldo comes in, checked shirt, prominent jaw. He orders a short beer. No one says a word.
“For fuck’s sake, guys, my mouth is dried out from shouting.”
This is not the time for arguments. They leave him standing at the bar. The barmaid, what a cutie she is, cheers them on.
“Come on, champs, kick some ass.”
To avoid having the bottles rattle, Joxe Mari carries his knapsack close to his body. They dash along Narrica Street. Koldo catches up, running at full speed.
“Wait for me, you bastards.”
At the far end of town, at the Bulevar, you can hear the crowd chanting slogans. And Koldo, one step behind his friends, makes his report breathing hard: a shitload of people, the buses rerouted. The other two neither look at him nor answer. Then Joxe Mari does stop for an instant next to the display window of a hat shop.
“Are there many txakurras?”
“No. A few beltzas.”
The passersby not involved in the demonstration, prudent and fearful, leave the area. Blue sky, a pleasant afternoon, baby carriages here and there. But you sense a tension in the air, a strange transparency, the prelude to the fight.
Jokin wants to know if Koldo saw the Rentería guys.
“No.”
“Okay then, let’s go.”
And the three of them make their way, in Indian file. Joxe Mari, the tallest, the most powerfully built, in the middle with his knapsack filled with Molotov cocktails. Walking neither slowly nor quickly, they make their way through the mob of young people who are shouting Presoak kalera, amnistia osoa. They say nothing. The demonstrators get out of their way, because they see something in them, notice something about them that says it would be better to let them through.
Following their plan, they join the rest of the group at a public bench in Guipúzcoa Plaza. Opposite them, a charming scene of pigeons and sparrows, grandchildren with grandparents, ladies with dogs, boyfriends with girlfriends, and passersby coming and going along the gravel paths under the trees.
Tons of greetings. The six boys head for Avenida, three on one side of the street, three on the other. Just before they get there, they gather together next to some scaffolding that rises to the top of the facade. There they cover their mouths with handkerchiefs and pull up their hoods. Jokin prefers the balaclava. Koldo ties on Joxe Mari’s handkerchief so he doesn’t have to put down the knapsack.
Now they know they’re being watched; now how their appearance, look, look, attracts a lot of attention. Some people, when they see them, cross the street and stand there whispering; but no one tries to stop them. No one rebukes them or calls the police. And everyone realizes these boys are going to raise a ruckus.
In a few minutes they catch sight of a city bus. Coming from Echaide Street, it has just entered Avenida and is heading toward them. In its normal route, the bus would have continued straight on to the Bulevar, which is now occupied by the demonstrators. The boys see it’s a number 5, with passengers, though not many. Bad luck: it wasn’t one of the new ones. But, once they’d covered their faces, they had no choice but to act. With no hesitation Jokin said: that one.
They let a few cars pass, but they stopped the one right in front of the bus. One slapped his hand down hard on the hood, another opened the driver’s side door, ordered the driver, a woman about thirty years old, to get out, and quickly, four of them slid the vehicle around so it blocked the street.
“My daughter, my daughter!”
Koldo pushed her back with a harsh shove.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
He almost knocks her down. The woman, who’s lost a shoe, fought to get back to the car. And from the other side of the street, a gentleman shouted:
“Leave her in peace, you thug.”
The bus, now that the street was blocked, had to stop. And since the boys abandoned the car, the woman seized the chance to pull a two- or three-year-old girl out of the backseat.
The bus driver, how did he react? Did he fight back? Was he paralyzed by fear? Jokin ordered him to open the doors, but the guy doesn’t understand. They used a slingshot to send a ball bearing into the windshield. It leaves a crack in the glass without piercing it. If it hits the driver in the face…Finally, we see he understood what the man with the balaclava was ordering him to do and he opened the doors. A dozen terrified passengers rushed to get off. Right then, the first incendiary bottle exploded inside. Joxe Mari gave instructions:
“Aim for the seats, the seats.”
The dri
ver jumped out. It took him a few seconds to notice one of his shoes was burning. He kicked it off as fast as he could. Not wasting a second, he crossed the street slapping his hand against his smoking trouser cuffs. By then, the bus was an enormous box of flames. A dense cloud rose, grazing the facade closest to it. The curious massed at a prudent distance. One of the aggressors took several pictures with a pocket camera.
Once the action was over, Joxe Mari, his fist raised, shouted with his eyes fixed on the bus enveloped in flames.
“Gora Euskadi askatuta!”
“Gora!”
“Gora ETA!”
“Gora!”
The six boys started running, some along one street, others along the parallel street, heading for the Bulevar. They had planned to regroup in the Guipúzcoa Plaza. The rest of the way they ran along with their faces uncovered, calmly conversing.
“Mission accomplished. Time for a drink.”
At that very moment, the carillon in the city hall tower was chiming in the purple afternoon light.
36
FROM A TO B
Congratulatory hands patted Joxe Mari’s back from time to time. A wide, hard back, a muscular wall covered by a striped sweatshirt. As soon as they walked into the bar: this guy, that guy, the sister of the cousin of, there you go, pats on the back. Joxe Mari, just nineteen, was sitting at the table right opposite the entrance to the Arrano Taberna. The gang chatted, over the loud rock music. A bad place for conspiracy, according to Jokin.
“They can hear us from out on the street.”
Anyone who entered or left had no choice but to pass behind Joxe Mari’s back. And he responded to the congratulations with a gesture of dignified pride, since in reality he’d done nothing, as he said half apologizing, but his duty. That morning the village handball team had beaten the Elgóibar squad, 25 to 24. Joxe Mari had scored seven goals. Everyone praised him:
“They’re going to make a professional out of you.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
At the other end of the table, Jokin was painting a halcyon picture of socialism and independence, with the seven territories of Euskal Herria united and purged of social classes, where even the grass, want to bet, will speak Basque. And then, in his opinion, get along with the Spaniards and the French, see?, but they in their house and we in our house. He laid out the strategic steps following the path established by the Alternative Basque Liberation Movement (KAS). The boys were drinking their heads off, some wine-and-Coke calimocho, some beer, all with a unanimous expression of approval on their faces.
The only one who from time to time became distracted, who looked in other directions or raised his eyes toward the television set, was Joxe Mari, to whom every two seconds someone who’d just walked in or was just leaving said a few words.
Jokin slammed his fist on the table.
“Anyone who gets in the way, blocking the achievement of our objective as a people, must be eliminated. Even if it was my own aita, God damn it. It’s like going from A to B. We’re in A”—he put the tip of his index finger on the table—“and B is there, where that glass sits. Well, we’re going to B no matter what it costs.”
The circle of friends seconded him in gestures and words. One:
“Day by day, each one in his village or his city, we’re moving this thing forward.”
Another:
“But it’s going to cost a lot, you know? The state is tough.”
“The state is a motherfucker.”
And Jokin, gesturing as if to demand proprietary rights over the conversation:
“Greater empires have fallen. Look at Napoleon. Today you kill one soldier, tomorrow another, and at the end you wipe out the army.”
They made toasts, joking, all of one opinion, for the postulates of the KAS. And Joxe Mari neither toasted nor realized what was happening because he was chatting with a guy standing next to him who worked in the same place. The boys asked him for his opinion.
“You all know I don’t like politics. It doesn’t matter to me who gives the orders. I’m only fighting so Euskal Herria will be a liberated nation. The rest you can figure out on your own. This guy here”—meaning Jokin—“has said it all: we’re going from A to B and when we get to B leave me in peace. I’m heading for the hills, I’ll plant some apple trees, set up a chicken coop, and you can all go fuck yourselves.”
Voices of disagreement instantly rose:
“We have to think of the working class as well.”
“And besides, we’ll have to expel the Spanish occupying forces. Not as easy as you say.”
Joxe Mari swallowed some calimocho and staring with utter calm at everyone sitting at the table said:
“You complicate everything. Look, if we have independence, the rest we can arrange among ourselves. Improve the lives of workers? Perfect. We’ll do it. Who’s going to stop us if no one from outside is governing us? The question of the Basque language: the same thing. Every son of a bitch will learn Basque and that’s that. The Spanish police and army? Well, if we’re independent, we will already have given them the boot. We’ll have our own police and our own army, and me my chickens and apple trees.”
“What about Navarra?”
He snorted before answering:
“If we don’t have Navarra then we haven’t reached B and there is no Euskal Herria. And the same goes for the Iparralde territories. Don’t you see how you’re complicating things?”
He said nothing more because someone was waving to him from the street. Josune: short bangs, hair going down her back, leather bracelets on her bare arm. Joxe Mari runs to kiss her. She steps back flashing stern eyes. She doesn’t want him to kiss her out on the street, how many times does she have to tell him?
“What’s wrong?”
“I saw your sister in the plaza with some guy who seems to be her boyfriend. I mean I guess because they were dancing so close. Arantxa lets herself be kissed in public. I don’t like that stuff.”
“So you’re here to tell me gossip?”
“I deliberately went over to them so she’d introduce me. He isn’t from the village.”
“Look, neska, my sister is older than I am. She goes out with anyone she likes. I don’t get involved.”
“Don’t you even want to know what his name is?”
He didn’t care.
“Guillermo.”
Joxe Mari didn’t think the name was either bad or good. The last name would be something else.
“What’s his last name?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“If he joins the family we’ll give him a nickname. Don’t worry.”
And the fact that Arantxa was going out with a boy and that she’d brought him to the village to show him off to her friends and maybe even the family also mattered to Joxe Mari not a bit.
“He’s an outsider. You can tell just looking at him. And he doesn’t speak Basque.”
“How do you know?”
“For Christ’s sake, when Arantxa introduced him I spoke to him and the guy didn’t understand and we had to go on in Spanish. It would be hell if a Spaniard were to worm his way into the family. Maybe he’s even from the police and using the pretext that he’s going out with your sister he’s busy spying on all of us, beginning with you.”
Joxe Mari furrowed his brow.
“The fact that he doesn’t speak Basque doesn’t mean that…”
“Doesn’t mean what?”
Laughter, blaring voices, and the music flooded the Arrano Taberna. And Joxe Mari scratched his head and looked: right over there, his gang busy drinking, happy, and standing in front of him, Josune, with a stern expression on her face.
“Okay, when I see her I’ll ask about it. Are you going into the tavern?”
“They’re waiting for me at home.”
“
And when can someone give you a kiss?”
“Not here.”
“Well, let’s go into that entryway.”
They did and they embraced in the half-light between the door and the row of mailboxes, until they heard the footsteps of someone coming down the stairs.
37
THE CAKE OF DISCORD
There’s an explanation for Gorka’s crushed nose and the chip in one of his incisors. When he was nine, he was run over by a van. It could have killed him. And he wouldn’t have been the first in the village. Convalescing, he asked his parents, using that sweet, singsong tone he’s lost now but which from time to time is audible in his adult voice, if he had died, if they’d have placed a cross at the side of the road the way they did for Isidoro Otamendi, who got killed one morning going to work on his motorbike.
Now that the shock had passed, Joxian was making jokes:
“Of course. But we’d have set up an even bigger one. Made out of iron so it would last for years and years.”
Miren didn’t think the conversation was funny.
“Shut up, all of you. Wait and see if God doesn’t punish us.”
A thin, fragile boy. Then, with the onset of puberty, he sprouted and walked hunched over as if he were ashamed of his height or perhaps of the acne dotting his cheeks. People would say to his mother on the street that if he kept on that way he’d be a hunchback. Miren felt that as if it were a shot.
“What do you want me to do? Punish him so he stops growing?”
By the time he turned sixteen he was the tallest in the family. Another more robust, more solid, and less elastic boy wouldn’t have survived the accident, they said. Who said? His mother, his father, all of them. Gorka learned to smile without showing the cracked tooth, but there was no way to hide his smashed nose. A little smashed, don’t exaggerate, in his mother’s opinion.
“Would you rather be dead?”
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