They cracked jokes, agreed to see each other the next day; but they never did. They didn’t trust him.
58
A WALK IN THE PARK
“This is going to be a walk in the park.”
“I’ll go in the hardware and you guys wait outside. It’s time I made my debut.”
They said he might be a drug dealer. The organization confirmed it in a communiqué published some days later in Egin. A rapid, easy ekintza, nothing spectacular, but good for testing his nerve. That’s what Patxo said—to calm him down?—and it was true. Joxe Mari remembered it often because it was his first operation that included a killing. His baptism, with someone else’s blood. He’d have to think hard to recall other actions. He’s forgotten lots of details about the early ones. They were simple little jobs: a couple of explosions, an attack. The episode in the bar on the other hand was alive in his memory. Not because of the guy. To him it didn’t matter who the victim was. You order me to execute so-and-so and I execute him no matter what. His mission wasn’t to think or feel but to carry out orders. That’s what people who criticize you don’t understand. Especially newspaper reporters, sticky flies who wait for the right moment to ask if you’re sorry. It’s something else altogether when you ask yourself that same question in your cell. He has periods, days, of depression. More and more. Hell, I’ve been locked up for a long, long time.
He was given the information and a photo. With a nose like that and a beard like that there was no possibility of error. The guy, between thirty and thirty-five, ran a small pub. Sometimes he worked as bartender, sometimes a woman tended bar. The woman was irrelevant. The place was on a street that was practically empty. Security? None. And there were no problems about making a getaway. Patxo was right calling this a walk in the park.
Sometimes they drew lots to see who would do this and who would do that. Not this time. Joxe Mari insisted he and no one else would do it. Ready to argue the point, Txopo suggested they play rock scissors paper.
“No, the hell with that.”
“Okay, okay.”
He would walk into the bar, Patxo would wait outside covering the getaway, and Txopo, who was the best driver of the three, would be sitting at the wheel of the car. Again, a walk in the park. They slept on mats on the floor of the place where they stayed. And Joxe Mari, right now in the present, has no memory of having had any dreams that night related to the next day’s ekintza. They had a TV, they ate what they found in the refrigerator, they watched a movie. That’s it.
In the morning, it wasn’t as if he was nervous, at least not so nervous he couldn’t feign calm with his comrades around, and that’s what they were, comrades, not friends. Suddenly there rose up in him again the tension he used to feel hours before an important match back in the days when he played on the handball team. In times like those, he spoke little and did not like to be spoken to, more than anything so he wouldn’t lose concentration, so he wouldn’t relax too much.
“Let’s go.”
Off they went. Problems, contretemps, unforeseen events? Nothing. His comrades knew Joxe Mari to be a joker, talkative. Along the way:
“Are you mad about something?”
“How about you stop breaking my balls?”
They went on in silence. The street was empty, few cars, on the outer fringe of the downtown area. They easily found a parking space. The person in question arrived one or two minutes later than the time determined as his regular routine in their scouting report. The beard, the nose: that was the man. He raised the sliding gate without looking around. That guy doesn’t realize he’s only got a minute to live. And he walked into the bar.
Truth be told: sitting in the front passenger seat, Joxe Mari’s heart was pounding. On the way, he pretended to rest his hands on his knees. But he wasn’t resting them. He was clutching his legs to control his tremor. He knows there is a before and an after when it comes to your first assassination, though these things, he thinks, depend on the individual. I mean, for example, you blow up a television transmission tower or a bank branch office and of course you cause damage, but damage can be repaired. A life can’t. Now he thinks it over objectively. In those days, something else concerned him. What? That his nerves would put him at risk. He was afraid of looking soft, uncertain in the presence of his comrades, or that the ekintza might fall apart because of him.
Better not to think too much. He got out of the car decisively, convinced he left the tremor and the palpitations behind him. He didn’t close the door completely. And Patxo, who was in the backseat, did the same. Did they speak to each other, look at each other? What for? They had it all planned, and the intense sunlight soon struck their faces.
Joxe Mari saw balconies with clothing hung out to dry. This is not a neighborhood where rich people live. How odd, no? To think something like that in such a moment, with the weight of the Browning under his jacket. One side of the street faced the mountain. There below, the expressway. An ugly place. Farther on, a group of children were playing, scattered over a lot with debris and bushes on its edges. What does “farther on” mean? Between 350 and 500 feet. They were too far away and having too much fun to notice the two young men heading, one behind the other, toward the bar. Joxe Mari’s heart wasn’t pounding as hard. The same thing happened when he played handball. As soon as the referee blew his whistle to start the match, he calmed down but without losing tension.
As he walked along the sidewalk he stopped hearing Patxo’s footsteps behind him. He passed an entryway with its glass door and number. What number? How am I going to remember that after all these years? On the other hand, he does remember that to enter the bar you had to go up two stairs. Or was it three? The metal gate wasn’t all the way up, just enough that he wouldn’t have to duck his head. And immediately he noticed the smell of old cigarette smoke, of a dump with bad ventilation. It took his eyes a few seconds to get used to the half-light. And he was disconcerted when he didn’t find the victim inside the bar. The place wasn’t much bigger than this cell, though it was longer, with a door opened in the rear where the nose and beard suddenly appeared.
“Do you mind waiting a bit? We aren’t quite open yet.”
The guy wore a chain around his neck. The silvery links reflected the weak light coming from the single burning bulb. The links ran down his slightly hairy chest and disappeared under his shirt, so Joxe Mari couldn’t know what kind of medal he was wearing. He fixed his gaze on the space just below his throat, the length of two chain links. He brought the muzzle of the Browning to that spot and fired. He had enough time to see the sudden, bloody wound before the man collapsed to one side and, as he violently fell, knocked over a barstool.
He was still moving there on the floor. As he tried to get up, he choked:
“Don’t shoot. Just take the money.”
To Joxe Mari the fact that the victim didn’t die instantly was an outrage, especially because he’d taken him for a common thief. The plaintive tone, the painful attempts to stand up. Joxe Mari was convinced that the guy was trying to evoke his sympathy. You can’t fool me. He saw the rows of bottles, the rail where people rest their feet. And he remembered his instructor’s maxim: we don’t assassinate, we execute. Be very careful about finishing the job. He took a step forward and without losing his calm, destroyed the man’s head.
Silence finally returned. Two steps away, wide open, the cash register. I could have taken advantage of the situation. Who would find out? He took nothing. Not even water from the faucet. And that is proof (he told himself as he exited the bar) of the justice of our struggle.
59
A THREAD OF GLASS
A reckless cabbie. Or is it normal to drive like this through the streets of Rome? He honked his horn and scattered a group of tourists clustered around their guide in the middle of the street, contemplating a historical building. And then, what a labyrinth of narrow streets, how many curves! Rol
ling down his window the cabbie waved his arm to greet a natty waiter trying to attract patrons by standing at the entrance to the terrace (awning and large potted plants) of a restaurant. They passed stretches of cobbled street. And in the backseat, between bounces, clutching each other’s hand, Aránzazu and Xabier exchanged glances every other second as if saying: what have we gotten ourselves into? Do we laugh or do we scream for help?
They got out at the entrance to the hotel Albergo del Senato. There they were, right next to the Pantheon, with its granite columns and all those people taking photos; nearby, an open carriage for tourists with its bored horse and its romantically drowsing driver, and at the center of the plaza, the fountain surrounded just then by teenagers—high-school students?—all with yellow kerchiefs around their necks, caps the same color, and backpacks.
Aránzazu paid the fare. They shared their money, and she was pulling out banknotes. A million lire. The cabbie, making gestures like a squirrel and speaking like one, too, drove off, buona giornata, as quickly as he’d driven them. And before entering the hotel, carrying their luggage, deeply breathing in the warm afternoon air, Aránzazu said to Xabier in a low voice:
“I swear to God, for a while I thought the driver was kidnapping us.”
Xabier, how different he was then, at least in his moments of leisure: ironic, witty, sarcastic (not so much in the hospital). His response:
“You don’t have to imagine it. He really did. The ransom was the fare.”
From the fourth-floor window, did they see the Piazza della Rotonda? Are you kidding? They were given a room that looked nothing like the one in the pamphlet the travel agent showed them. Spacious? Yes. Clean? Also yes. But the window opened onto a dark interior patio. Facing them, a blackish brick wall with big windows cut into it. A poetic detail, according to Aránzazu: a cat curled up on a ledge. And further up, near the eaves, a heroic bush that clung to life by sinking its roots into a crack in the wall.
“No complaints?”
“No, I like the cat.”
“Interior patios bring certain advantages. I’ll bet that at night the people with rooms overlooking the plaza can’t sleep a wink because of the noise.”
“The poor things. They’ve been swindled. Even though I don’t know them I’m sorry for them.”
“Remember the meaning of our trip.”
“I wasn’t thinking about anything else. How good you smell!”
And he began undressing her right there at the window, and she, completely deferential after making sure no one could see them from the patio, beautiful, joyful lips, let him and even spread her legs and raised her arms and struck poses that facilitated the smooth removal of her clothes.
She’d begged him: let’s have no misunderstandings, he should express his desires without holding anything back, physical desires or any other kind, and she would do the same with hers. Companions, friends, lovers, fused identities. Three days in Rome would allow them to plumb the depths of their relationship. Xabier quickly took off his clothes. He penetrated her, the two of them chest against chest. She guessed his intention and rested one foot on the edge of a chair and, wide open, their coupling was consummated without either using hands. Entangled, without shifting their bodies, they simultaneously turned their eyes toward the patio. The wall, the cat, the bush. Still, united, without embracing, she with her hands together on the back of his neck, his even with her kidneys. A pleasurable habit they had. The sensation of being two in one without one possessing the other. She, whispering, as if afraid of annoying:
“Do you want more?”
At night, he said. They remained immobile, silent, one minute, two, both immersed in their fantasies and thoughts, until his member, softening little by little, escaped its warm refuge.
“Shall we eat?”
They went out. Where? They strolled about for a while. This way, that way, and without planning it they ended up at Piazza Navona. The fountain with those statues that to Aránzazu seemed monstrous, the splendid spring sunlight, a row of nuns that emerged in Indian file from that church, and right in front of them the Spanish bookstore, to which they decided to return after satisfying their hunger but not later than tomorrow.
Leaving the plaza at an angle, heading toward the river, they stopped at a restaurant. We’re going in here, whether it’s good or bad, expensive or cheap, because by then hunger was tyrannizing their bodies. Salad, gnocchi, and for him fish, which wasn’t bad but was nothing to write home about.
“No complaints, okay? Just look at what luck we’ve had with the weather.”
“This orata, don’t you think they caught it in the fountain? I’m saying it because it tastes like the feet of a statue.”
“Xabier, please, they’ll hear you.”
“They’re Italians. They don’t understand us.”
“They understand every word. If you want to criticize, do it in Basque.”
And they made a toast with vino rosso della casa, accomplices in laughter, in mischievous glances, in happiness. He told her in Basque, how good you smell. She reminded him that they swore they would visit Rome to enjoy themselves. They’d agreed to all that days before setting out. Aránzazu imagined a thread of glass they were holding up, he at one end, she at the other. Three days in Rome with a thread that could snap at any moment. That was their fear. And Xabier, joking:
“To our honeymoon.”
“Calm down, my friend. Not so fast.”
She’d only gotten her divorce a little more than two months ago. Ugh, it was hard going, trying to talk about her previous marriage. By the same token, it was hard (impossible?) for her to erase eight years of painful memories. Her ophthalmologist ex-husband and Xabier saw each other in the hallways, in the elevator, in the hospital parking lot. Also in the Anoeta Stadium since both were members of the Real Sociedad, with seats no more than thirty feet apart. Xabier tried, with the appropriate dissimulation, to avoid him. And? It’s the one thing that annoyed him. The ex, once the divorce was finalized, found out about his relationship with Aránzazu and, in the hospital cafeteria, told him to take care of her, not to leave her alone, and he added that she was an adorable but fragile woman.
“Take very good care of her.”
Where does he get off butting in that way? And that’s exactly what’s happening, I mean you don’t want problems, especially in the workplace, so he opts for diplomacy and silence. All in all: nothing. He made a vague gesture of agreement with his head turned toward the waitress, could you get me the check? He didn’t finish his latte and was going to say goodbye, and had parted his lips to say it, but the other was faster:
“I wish the two of you all the happiness in the world. Really. But it won’t be easy. I know from experience.”
That afternoon, he told Aránzazu what happened and she burst into tears.
“You probably think I’m exaggerating.”
That was the first time he saw her cry. Pretty, discreet, immersed in elegant sadness. A sensitive woman, thirty-seven years old, three years older than he. He was fascinated watching her moist eyes. He embraced her, consoling, delighting in her fragrant warmth, he touched his cheek on her black hair and kissed her lips. There was a charm in that way of not ruining her eye shadow with the corner of a tissue; also, perhaps, a touch of anxious coquetry and a great fear. Let’s see if I’m going to be the one who exaggerates. The part about fear was real. It was there inside her like an opaque pain. The fear of being incapable of a real love, and this was her last attempt. She told him so one Saturday afternoon while they were passing time before a comedy at the Teatro Principal.
“You, definitively, are the last. I don’t have the slightest doubt about it. If our relationship doesn’t work, this unfortunate lady will never again fall in love, absolutely never.”
It was during that conversation that the idea of the trip came to Aránzazu.
“Let’s go far away from here for a few days, far away from our work and all the people we know. Three or four days where we’re together twenty-four hours a day. By the end, we’ll know how far we’re willing to go, if we can put up with each other, if we want to create a relationship beyond sex. What do you think? But we have to split the expenses fifty-fifty.”
Then they entered the theater. When they left, as they passed through the door, she said that thing about the thread of glass, revealing her fear. At the age of thirty-seven she felt like a wilting flower. What did she have to offer? Love, of course. That for sure. But if Xabier had other priorities (having children, for example), she thought it would be hard for him to be happy with her. That fear soured her days, accompanied her to Rome, surfaced again down there. Where? In that walkway along the Tiber. The two of them had taken a seat on a projection from the wall that was like a bench. They’d just eaten. The sun was shining on them. And the calm, turbid river flowed along. Suddenly, a stone he found on the ground gave him an unfortunate, puerile idea.
“If I manage to throw it to the other shore it means nothing and no one will ever separate us.”
“Don’t do it, please. It’s better not to tempt fate.”
“You think I can’t do it?”
“I think you can, but the river is wide.”
“Let’s see, let’s see.”
He took off his sports jacket. That chest, those shoulders are wide, but he’s not young anymore. Doesn’t he realize that? He made a short run, this man who normally was so judicious, such a doctor, such a rational man, and threw the rock hard, with masculine desires to impress a woman. The stone flew at great speed through the clear air of the early afternoon. The two of them watched it, barely a black speck that went off, began to fall, plop into the water.
“Well, it was only a game.”
Homeland Page 27