Homeland

by Fernando Aramburu

  When Koldo’s pals came back to the apartment, at around nine, they were surprised not to find him there. Where’s that asshole gone? It was his turn to make dinner. There wasn’t even any bread in the house. Just then they hear the racket of running boots. Where? Outside on the stairway. Did you hear that? Jokin peered carefully out of the ventilation window in the bathroom. He saw the Guardia Civil vehicles.

  “They’re coming for us.”

  They jumped out of the kitchen window into the backyard. Joxe Mari didn’t even have time to turn off the TV. Agile, they slipped away in the darkness and ran toward the mountain. The moon illuminated their path. They arrived out of breath, slept badly, that is if you can call that sleeping. With no bed, no blankets, without the consolation of cigarettes. A fucking mess, but shh, silence. That was the nature of the struggle.

  “Brother, this is the moment when you can’t let us down.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “First, you go to the Arrano and you speak with Patxi. If he’s not there, don’t talk to anyone. Understand? To no one. He should give you instructions for us about how we get to Iparralde along with some sandwiches and something to drink. But watch out. Don’t carry the food on a tray balanced on your head because in the village there will be txakurras posing as peasants. I imagine Patxi will give you some money for us. You pack it all up nicely and you bring it to us.”

  Gorka nodded.

  “Don’t even think of going home to tell all this to the aitas. I’ll write them as soon as I can.”

  “And don’t go to the butcher shop. And if you run into any member of my family on the street, you keep your mouth shut, okay?”

  Gorka said yes to everything. His brother:

  “Now comes the part where you need finesse. Behind the house you’ll find our bicycles, lined up against the wall under a little roof. You open the lock”—they handed him two keys—“and you bring one bike and whatever Patxi gives you for us. You’ll know which bike is Koldo’s because you don’t have the key to his lock. While we’re eating, you get the other bike. We’d like to get going at the latest by four. If it can be earlier, even better. Everything depends on you.”

  Gorka returned to the village, carried out the instructions he’d been given, came back on a bicycle carrying an envelope Patxi gave him in the Arrano, but without sandwiches or drinks. In the envelope, cash for Jokin and Joxi Mari.

  When Gorka reached the quarry he found them having an argument.

  “You can hear the two of you from far away.”

  Jokin demanded that Gorka go to the apartment and bring him some shoes. He did not want to go to France wearing slippers. Besides, a guy bicycling in slippers is going to catch someone’s eye. Joxe Mari changed his mind. To his brother:

  “Take the key. If you see there’s no one around, go in. If you get in, bring shoes for Jokin and for me a jacket you’ll find hanging behind the door.”

  “And cigarettes.”

  “But only if you see you’re in no danger. I don’t want them to grab you because of us.”

  Gorka came back shortly with the second bicycle. He said he didn’t enter the apartment because he saw odd-looking people around the entry. A rotten lie. What he didn’t want to do was put himself in more danger than necessary.

  Joxe Mari:

  “Okay, it doesn’t matter.”

  And Jokin:

  “What size shoe do you wear?”

  And he exchanged his slippers for Gorka’s shoes, offering this argument:

  “Hey, you only have to go from here to home.”

  They said goodbye with hugs and pats on the back. Joxe Mari planted a resounding fraternal kiss on Gorka’s cheek:

  “You’re great, you’ve always been great, God damn it.”

  Just when they were about to separate, Gorka remembered Josune’s message.

  “If you’ve got something to tell her.”

  “Tell her to get on with her life.”

  The two friends left, and Gorka, sixteen years old then, watched them disappear on their bicycles, heading for the highway, Joxe Mari wearing the wool jacket he’d borrowed, the other one wearing his shoes. Suddenly Gorka felt a foreboding sensation.

  52

  A GREAT DREAM

  “So why didn’t you tell me all that back then? I thought we could confide in each other.”

  “I was sixteen. I was scared. Look, when the Guardia Civil came a few days later to search the aitas’ house, I was sure they were coming after me, that it had nothing to do with Joxe Mari, who after all was long gone. How many nights I didn’t sleep because of that!”

  “And you didn’t tell the aitas, either?”

  “I told no one.”

  Arantxa scolded him severely. Didn’t he understand that when he went to get the bicycles he became the accomplice of those apprentice terrorists? Her judgment (as she made it her features tensed, her lips pursed, her eyes became tigerlike): it was an abuse that Joxe Mari had used him as a go-between with the Arrano Taberna knowing how that compromised him. Even if he was just a kid, if the Guardia Civil caught him:

  “They would have beaten the shit out of you.”

  She softens her eyes. Naive, more than naive. But okay, it’s been a long time since all that happened. Now jolly, she offered him another cup of coffee.

  “The two of them rode down to the highway and I asked myself, why are they so happy? I had the feeling I wouldn’t see them again for a long time.”

  “You can visit Jokin in the cemetery. As for our brother, we saw him today thanks to his photo on the TV news. Or have you seen him during the past few years?”

  “Me? I have no idea where he went.”

  Gorka understands that as long as he lived in the village it would be hard for him to stay out of the abertzale business. In a small town, he says, you can’t be invisible. When there were demonstrations, homages, fights, and there was something like that going on all the time, it wasn’t that someone called the roll. But there were always eyes dedicated to checking who was there and who wasn’t there.

  He tells his sister that from time to time he would go into the Arrano. He would order a short beer, let himself be seen for a quarter of an hour, and then goodbye. He didn’t like the place, not even its smell. He was never a smoker or a drinker, and sports, frankly, as he says, don’t rock his world. Everybody knew about his love of reading. Everybody knew that he was not fond of partying or going out at night. Usually he stayed at home or in the municipal library. Kartujo, they called him in mockery. But deep down they respected him for his knowledge of Basque.

  And for another reason. Because of something, he admits, that protected him.

  “Being Joxe Mari’s brother gave me prestige. Having a brother in ETA, a great claim to fame! I could seem an odd, introverted guy to them, not sociable, but no one had any suspicions about my politics.”

  “What? You have political thoughts?”

  Gorka could not repress a smile.

  “Every five months I get a political idea. But it passes quickly.”

  At that point, he remembered an incident. With whom?

  “With ama. One afternoon she comes into my room to call me out for being at home amusing myself with books while my brother is sacrificing himself for Euskal Herria and the townspeople had demonstrated to protest something I can’t remember. And she insinuated that if Joxe Mari found out, he would be really angry.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “What could I do? I grabbed my umbrella and went down to the demonstration to shout a few times.”

  Even though he’d not yet turned seventeen, he made his plans. The only thing that could get me out of this passivity would be a change of air (Donostia, Bilbao, even out of Euskadi) and study. To embark on university studies, his great dream. Basque philology, psychology, in that di
rection. To study anything in a university in Paris, London—can you imagine doing that? He never mentioned a word of his intentions to his friends.

  “You did talk to me about them.”

  “I began the round of consultations with aita.”

  Sunday afternoon. He supposed he’d find him in the garden. So, he walked down and there he was, collecting leaves and branches to make a bonfire. He wasn’t ignorant of the fact that this man, an amateur gardener in his leisure hours with his dust-covered beret and his hands hardened by decades of work in the foundry, did not have the last word on the subject that mattered to Gorka, even if he was the one who brought in the salary that supported the family. Even so, Gorka tried to sound him out for his opinion.

  To study? Joxian thought it was a stupendous idea. Another man dreaming while still awake: a doctor son like Txato’s, a man with a mind who runs a business, a gentleman with a dresser filled with ties. Gorka reminded him that studies (tuition, books, perhaps travel, and a student room in a city) would imply expenses. Until then, his father had forgotten that detail.

  “Oh, shit. Well, you’ll have to ask ama.”

  Miren didn’t hesitate. Not a chance.

  “Unless you work to cover your expenses yourself. With the shitty salary your father brings in we live day to day, where are we going to get that kind of money? If we really tighten our belts we could help you a little: but it wouldn’t be enough for the whole program of studies.”

  Immediately, she started in with complaints, lamentations one after another. What with Joxe Mari in France, that we just make it to the end of the month.

  “And if I ask for a loan?”

  “From who?”

  “Txato. Before, you were good friends.”

  “Are you crazy? We don’t speak to him!”

  And from complaints and lamentations she moved on to criticism and accusations, to contempt and condemnation, and she worked herself up to such an extreme of rage that Gorka never again mentioned the subject of studies in his parents’ house.

  “It was then you talked to me, wasn’t it? But that was impossible. I swear. As a saleswoman in a shoe store I earned a modest living. Guille and I had decided to get married and we needed every red cent.”

  “I understand perfectly. I’m not bitter about it. In fact, two or three years from now I’d be able to pay my own way, but I think that train has already passed by for me. Things are going well for me in Bilbao. I earn a little in the radio station, not a lot, but that’s in exchange for being able to dedicate myself to what I like most, which is writing. As you see I already have one book. Maybe next year I’ll publish another. I’ve been invited to a round of readings in different ikastolas. They pay well, actually very well. I contribute to the spread of Basque. I’m moving forward. What about you?”

  Arantxa clutched her belly with her hands.

  “I’m going to move forward too. In four months unless something goes wrong.”

  “Have you picked out a name for my nephew?”

  “Of course. Restitution.”

  “Seriously, now.”

  “Endika or Aitor. Those we’re considering. Which do you like better?”

  “Endika’s the one I like better.”

  53

  THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE

  Nerea loved that motto on everyone’s lips, the one you could read on so many walls: Happy, Combative Youth. And, happy, combative, young, she voted for the Herri Batasuna party. She couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Certainly, she liked the idea of joy more than the idea of combat. Throwing stones, setting fires, crashing cars? That was for the boys. That’s what she and her girlfriends thought. So as soon as the rough stuff began, let’s get out of here, we’re in the way, they abandoned the scene. But they did go to mass meetings and demonstrations, because the fact is that in the village, more or less all the young people took part in them. Even the children of those who immigrated to the Basque Country from other parts of Spain participated, along, of course, with the children of the mayor, a member of the Basque Nationalist Party. One of them studied with Nerea and together, working with other students, they unfolded banners, put up posters, distributed pamphlets, or painted graffiti on the walls of the school.

  Nerea traveled to Arrasate (Bittori called it Mondragón) in March of 1987. She learned the news in the Arrano Taberna.

  “What do those people say?”

  “That Txomin Iturbe is dead.”

  “How?”

  “In a traffic accident in Algiers.”

  “For sure?”

  “There’s nothing for sure in this business.”

  God knows if secret agents of the Spanish state or assassins from the Antiterrorist Liberation Groups had fiddled with the brakes. Several faces seconded that supposition with their expression. Patxi took down the framed photo of the dead man. After wiping it clean, he placed it on the bar where anyone who entered the tavern could see it.

  The newspapers over the next few days confirmed the official version. An Algerian policeman who was with him in the car died as well. And to dispel all doubts, a female ETA militant implicated in the accident had her arm in a cast. All lies, but as Arantxa said in a low voice when she was alone, sad and with a brother in France learning to kill, unless he’d already gone into action: in this land of ours the truth died a long time ago.

  “Are you going to go?”

  Arantxa, not at all happy about the idea, replied:

  “Of course, ama. All the young people in town are going.”

  All? Arantxa didn’t go. The evening before, Saturday, she said she didn’t feel well. Fever, shivers, a cold. The four girlfriends agreed that the best thing would be for her to go to bed as soon as possible. Hot milk and honey, that’s the trick, and sweat under the covers. That way she might be able to get up the next day sufficiently recovered to attend the funeral in Arrasate. So Arantxa quickly left. And the rest of her group, on their way to the discotheque, planned the next day’s travels.

  They’d been told that at midmorning two buses would leave the town plaza (expenses paid by the Town Council); but no, the girls preferred to travel on their own in Nerea’s car. Txato’s car actually, which Nerea would ask to borrow, certain that her father would let her use it because, first, he doesn’t need it on Sundays and because, second, he never denies her anything.

  “I don’t think what you’re doing is right.”

  “Just a freaking minute, ama. All my girlfriends are going. What would they think of me if after planning all this I call them to say I’m standing them up? Even Arantxa, who felt crappy, ran home to rest so she can get up tomorrow healthy.”

  “You know that man was a chief in ETA and had lots of people killed.”

  Nerea, rolling her eyes, was losing patience.

  “Try to understand that for years Txomin was the leader of the struggle of our people. He gave up everything, his home, his job, his family, all for Euskal Herria. And attempts on his life have been made more than once. He’s an idol for Basque youth. A hero. What am I saying, a hero? He’s God. So, do me a favor. When you’re walking around town or in the shops, bite your tongue before you criticize him, because you could find yourself in trouble and, incidentally, get me into trouble. Besides, what do you know about politics? Go to mass, ama. Pray and take communion, and let the rest of us do our thing.”

  Ten p.m. Txato still hadn’t returned from the gastronomic society, where right about now he’d be finishing supper. It’s true he wouldn’t come home too late because tomorrow, the Sunday phase of the cyclotourism program, he’d be getting up early. When he did get home, Nerea had already gone to bed. At that time, Txato had no graffiti on his walls, he still went down to the bar every day and had supper on Saturdays with his friends, but he’d already received more than one letter from the organization. Nerea didn’t know. Xabier, either. And Txato
and Bittori spent a good while whispering in bed.

  “Try to understand her, dear. She’s young.”

  “She’s old enough to know that what she’s doing isn’t right.”

  “Well, considering it objectively, I think it’s better she go to Mondragón.”

  “To support a gang of mafiosi who are extorting money out of her father?”

  “Nerea knows nothing about it. I’d rather she didn’t. That way she won’t be afraid. Let her go with her girlfriends and have some fun.”

  “So she can shout goras to ETA. Have you been drinking?”

  “Very little. As long as my daughter is with abertzales, they’ll leave her in peace.”

  “The way I see it is that we’ve got the enemy right here in our house.”

  “All the same, my problem will get solved, and we won’t have to worry our children.”

  “The thing is, you let that girl do anything she likes. I mean really, like going to the funeral of an ETA chief in a car belonging to someone they’ve threatened. My God! Have you ever seen anything that absurd?”

  She should try to understand; Nerea’s young. They went on arguing and muttering for another twenty minutes until, backs turned to each other, each one fell asleep.

  As he did on so many other Sundays, Txato got up early. Pulling aside the window curtain a bit, he checked, using the streetlight, to see if it was raining. In the kitchen, dressed in bicycle gear, he had a cup of black coffee without sugar as his only breakfast. He took along a pear and an apple for the road, filled his canteen with water, and walked out into the dawn to get his bicycle out of the garage.

  Later in the morning, Bittori, sweet, affectionate, tried to dissuade Nerea, who was already prepared to leave.

  “And if I ask you as a favor?”