Besides, Bittori was waiting for the hospital to call. Xabier:
“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with that.”
He dialed a number. He said hello, spoke, asked. And whoever it was he was talking to gave him another number he wrote down in a notebook. He then dialed that number. His mother behind him on the sofa. And he with his back toward her, as if blocking her out.
“I’m sorry, Xabier. There was nothing to be done.”
He said thank you. Thank you for what? For nothing. It was a way to fake calm. And he hung up. His mother was behind him. It was difficult to turn around. He avoided looking straight at her. He searched for words: they just informed me that, you have to know that. But instead of saying any of that he said he was going to the hospital to find out and that he would call from there to keep her abreast of the situation. He asked her:
“If you hear them insulting you, hang up the phone right away. Promise?”
77
EVIL PLANS
Two days after the funeral, Txato was buried in the Polloe cemetery. Few people stood at the graveside. No absence weighed as heavily on Bittori as that of Nerea. Nerea was embittering her mourning; she wouldn’t forgive her. Xabier, understanding, reasonable, conciliating, mediated between mother and daughter. It was useless. He couldn’t console the one or persuade the other. It seemed to him his mother’s rage grew deeper and deeper. He called the bar in Zaragoza again and again trying to contact his sister and convince her to come home as soon as possible. That first thing would be unpleasant, because he knew he was becoming a nuisance to the owner of the bar. The second thing, simply, didn’t work, since Nerea had decided she would not face the fact of her father’s death. So that’s it? In a final blast of spite, his mother told Xabier that it was all the same to her, that Nerea should go about her life as she intended to go about hers, and that:
“Know something? I don’t believe in God.”
The morning of the burial was gray. At least it wasn’t raining, and no wind was blowing. Because up there, where can you take cover? Crosses, headstones, paths. Below, the tile roofs of the city wrapped in autumnal mist. People say it’s a pretty cemetery. Some consolation! A few people gathered at the vault and when the capstone was pulled aside, the coffin of Grandfather Martín became visible. Relatives from Azpeitia came, people you only see at weddings and burials. Bittori’s sister came even though she understood nothing, because the poor thing was out of touch with reality. A half-dozen neighbors came, lowering their voices as they expressed their sympathy. Along with them, two employees from Txato’s business. It’s understandable. Far away from the town, no one can see them, no one’s going to criticize them. Bittori, her eyes sunken, calm, thanked each one for attending.
On the afternoon of the funeral, the Azpeitia people asked about Nerea.
“She wasn’t able to come. You know, she’s studying in Zaragoza.”
Xabier, son and bodyguard, never left Bittori’s side. He was next to her when the first goodbyes began, when he noticed the woman wearing dark glasses, standing about twenty paces from the rest, as if she were visiting another grave. It’s she. Who? Who else? Aránzazu. After what happened between them, Xabier did not expect to see her again. Perhaps in passing from time to time, hi, hi, in the parking lot or in the hospital cafeteria.
To his mother:
“I’ll wait for you at the gate.”
“Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Bittori had just recognized the nurse. But didn’t he say he’d cut off their relationship?
As he approached Aránzazu, prettier than ever, Xabier noticed the silence that formed behind him. Serious, professional, he shook her hand. He wasn’t going to kiss her with all those people there, was he?
They started to walk toward the gate, always keeping a foot or so between each other, making a slight detour from the others.
“I kept apart from the others so I wouldn’t cause any bother.”
“You know you don’t bother anyone.”
“I liked your father. From the first day we met he was friendly toward me. I can’t say the same about your mother.”
“Forget that. I’m begging you, please.”
“I came to say goodbye to your father and to protest against terrorism. If this were a decent country, the cemetery would be overflowing with people.”
“What can you do?”
“At the same time, it’s an opportunity to say goodbye to you as well, forever.”
“You’re leaving?”
Listen, Xabier, what does it matter to you? It’s true, I don’t know why I asked. In reality, everything was talked out between the two of them, talked out by both, broken by him, in a corner of the café in the London Hotel. And she, who was a good-hearted person, you can’t deny that, made the noble gesture of attending Txato’s burial; at the same time, the burial of a love in which she’d invested many hopes, much of herself, all of her energy. That love, which was so fragile, and you smashed it, yes, you, lies buried in your father’s grave. Two evenings before, when the inevitable tears began to cede their place to resignation, Aránzazu had said:
“The person who killed your father broke what joined us together.”
She didn’t seem resentful. Even though she wasn’t lacking reasons for being resentful. Xabier, you rat, how could you treat her that way? What? Don’t play dumb. At first she didn’t understand. Just after Txato’s death she thought Xabier was blinded by rage and sorrow. And, open and good, she was ready to provide him with tenderness, to relieve a part of his sufferings; for her part, she would take them onto her own back. She promised him love, faithful company, more than ever in the tragic hour, and with tear-blurred eyes she told him:
“I’ll make you happy, maitia, I swear.”
“But I mustn’t be happy.”
“Who’s stopping you?”
“I’m stopping myself. At this moment I can’t think of a more monstrous crime than the egoistic pretension of being happy.”
“I feel empty.”
She confessed, as if talking to herself, her bad luck with men; she said goodbye, left the hotel, and now she was in the cemetery, wearing sunglasses on a gray day.
“If you don’t mind, a friend of mine will pass by your flat to pick up my things. She’ll bring along the things you left in mine.”
“As you wish. Believe me—”
She interrupted him.
“What I believe doesn’t matter. I’ve found a new horizon when I least expected to. I followed an acquaintance’s suggestion and sent in an application to Doctors Without Borders. It’s still early for a response, but I was told by telephone they urgently need nurses and that with my CV they’d accept me with no problems. So I’m leaving the hospital, leaving this city, and soon I’ll be enrolled in a preparatory course. And the fact is that the other night, after we said goodbye, I was walking along Paseo Nuevo with evil plans.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“There was no one around. It was dark. It would have been easy. A delightful setting for a romantic suicide. It was really tempting. And then I thought: let’s see, Aránzazu, there are so many people suffering in the world, experiencing hunger, epidemics, wars. Why don’t you do something for others? Something that might help those most in need and give a positive meaning to your life. That’s the decision I made.”
“I think it’s a great decision.”
In a bit, they reached the cemetery gate.
“Maybe you should embark on a similar adventure.”
“I’ll think about it.”
They parted with a formal handshake. She, having barely taken a few steps, turned her smiling face toward him:
“Thanks for the good moments.”
“Thank you.”
“You shouldn’t have thrown that stone in Rome.”
Standing next to the gate, Xabier watched her walk away. Aránzazu’s final smile left him feeling bittersweet. A scene of tears, shouts, accusations: that would have been much easier to digest. Her way of walking, her slim figure, her upright shoulders. He almost called her. More: he felt a strong temptation to run after her.
But then his mother was next to him, taking hold of his arm.
“Didn’t you say you’d broken up with her?”
“She came to say goodbye. She’s going far away.”
“All to the good. That one wasn’t for you. I realized that the same day you introduced her.”
78
THE SHORT COURSE
That he was going to spend a long time being held in reserve he knew already. He’d talked it over with Jokin. Being together made the gray rains of Brittany, the interminable waiting, the boredom more bearable, and as long as they were discreet, they wouldn’t lack amusement. They were well aware that more than one militant had simply blown off all discipline. They hadn’t. Well, a little, just as long as they didn’t get a reputation as rebels.
Sometimes they rode through the countryside on bicycles that belonged to the house owner. They stole fruit, hunted frogs, carved figures in wood with a knife, and once they went to the festival held in a nearby town where they drank a kind of cider, to give it some sort of name, which according to Joxe Mari tasted like pixa.
But Jokin was made part of an operating group. Joxe Mari was left alone later with Patxo, who was a nice guy but wasn’t Jokin. Joxe Mari did not really trust him. Why? I don’t know. There was always some distance. Something you noticed in how you treated each other. You get along fine, okay. But it’s as if there was a tiny noise in the motor. Something wasn’t quite right.
After a time, the French gendarmes, together with elements of the Judicial Police, men from the French border patrol, and secret agents from the Renseignements Généraux captured Santi Potros in a house in Anglet. Everyone was supposed to be careful, and guess what? The cops found a leather attaché case. Inside, solid gold: a ledger with the names of more than four hundred active ETA militants, their aliases, their home addresses, their telephone numbers, the kind of car they were using, and even its registration. They fell in the following weeks.
Patxo thought that if he and Joxe Mari had been called up, they would have been captured, too. He also thought that:
“The organization will have to find replacements. You’ll see that one of these days now, they’ll be telling us: okay, boys, get a move on.”
But it didn’t happen that way. Their inactivity went on for several more months. During that time, Joxe Mari received a letter from his parents sent through the organization’s internal communication system. It contained an article from Egin with all the details about the “strange” death of Jokin. It shook Joxe Mari to the core. He couldn’t remember ever crying that much, not even as a child. And to keep Patxo from seeing him, he pretended to be sick and didn’t eat for two days, keeping to his bed the whole time.
“Do you see the armed struggle clearly?”
Patxo didn’t hesitate:
“I got into this fully aware of the consequences.”
“Didn’t you say that your old man has to be pushed around in a wheelchair?”
“I did. What about it?”
“Maybe you should be helping him.”
“My sisters take care of that.”
He just couldn’t feel himself getting any closer to that boy. And besides, Joxe Mari thought it was strange to be stuck with someone who didn’t come from the same town. Patxo grew up in Lasarte. He had no Basque names in his family and didn’t even speak Basque. Why did this guy join the struggle? What is he, a donkey who paints stripes on himself to look like a zebra? And he suspected he was a Guardia Civil mole. In any case, he preferred not to talk to him about personal matters.
Years later, he told his mother during one of her visits to the prison that during those days when he found out about Jokin he was on the verge of asking to be allowed to leave.
“A fine time to have ideas like that. We’ve got Koldo right here in town, all nice and cozy with his Mexican wife and children.”
Joxe Mari had practically made up his mind. In fact, he thought he’d tell Patxo the next time he saw him, but then Patxo brought in a sealed note informing them they would soon undertake an intensive course so they could be incorporated into the struggle as soon as possible.
Patxo saw things clearly:
“Comrade, there’s no going back. The game begins now.”
“If that means getting out of here, I’m up for anything.”
It was raining when they boarded the train. It didn’t stop raining during the whole trip. Then a transfer to another city, then a transfer to another city. In the mid-afternoon they reached Bordeaux, where it was still raining as hard as it had during the morning.
In a bar at the station they met the man in charge of picking them up. The guy was a speed demon, and I had to swallow the glass of wine I’d just been served in one gulp. In the car, he ordered them to put on a blindfold and to slide down in the seat. Joxe Mari knew the drill from when he and Jokin had gone to the interview with Santi Potros. After an hour or so of riding, they entered a house where music was playing. Only then could they take off the blindfold.
For eight days, they were locked in a room with no windows, three steps wide and five steps long. Too small for two, which forced them into a physical closeness that drove Joxe Mari crazy. With Jokin he’d have shared even his underwear. He just didn’t have the same confidence with this guy. He suffered most at night. Dear old Patxo must have had a deviated septum. The fact is that when he fell asleep he made an unbelievably annoying noise. Not that he snored. The one who snored was Joxe Mari. Patxo made a noise like a whistling growl. And it continued until dawn.
They could only leave the room to go to the bathroom on the lower floor. They were to see and remember as little as possible. Often there was music playing full blast inside the house. In that way, the one set of occupants had no idea what the others were doing. A talde, the instructor told them, works as an isolated unit so that if you’re captured they can’t get information out of you that might compromise the general functioning of the organization, understand? Both men nodded affirmatively.
During the morning, the theoretical classes bored Joxe Mari to death. He would take stealthy peeks at his watch and mentally count the minutes left until lunch. Study was never his thing. Even as a boy in the ikastola, he had to make enormous efforts to concentrate. The same occurred during the militancy classes; but during the afternoon they went on to practical matters, using weapons, and then a lively enthusiasm took hold of him and he quickly felt the way he did in the old days, when he would dash up to the quarry with his friends to experiment with Molotov cocktails, bombs, and rockets. That was for him: the action, the movement, not the incredibly boring sermons on the theory of explosives, which filled him with crushing fatigue.
He and Patxo practiced assembling and disassembling weapons. They learned to prepare booby traps and car bombs. What else? They set up timing mechanisms. Then they’d explode the blasting cap in a steel barrel filled with sand. They learned everything there was to know about hiding places and mailboxes and how to pick car locks. The instructor insisted on teaching them safety measures and then it was be very careful and watch out et cetera. He explained how they were to behave in case they were arrested. Firing practice was limited to one afternoon and only with a pistol because the French police were always watching. It wasn’t as easy as it was years back when they took target practice in the neighboring woods. A shame as far as Joxe Mari was concerned. He liked nothing more than target practice.
He kissed the butt of the Browning.
“I like this more than screwing.”
He made them laugh. The jerks: did they think he was joking? The
instructor:
“Buddy, the one doesn’t exclude the other.”
At night, the last he’d be locked up in that house, Joxe Mari couldn’t sleep. His worries, the echo of the recent shots, Patxo’s whistling breathing. So he started talking to himself. In a low voice? No chance: in a normal voice, as if he were talking to someone. Just after two in the morning. He already saw himself aiming his weapon and not exactly at paper targets. Patxo woke up. In the darkness:
“What are you talking about over there?”
“Who holds the record for executions in ETA?”
“Who the hell knows? De Juana or someone in the Madrid group.”
“Do you know if he’s taken out more than fifty?”
“Why in hell would you ask me? Look what time it is. In a couple of hours we’ve got to get going.”
For several minutes they stopped talking in the dark. And Patxo went back to making the breathing noise that got on Joxe Mari’s nerves. Suddenly:
“The death of Jokin is going to cost the state a lot of blood. I’m going to mow down so many that someday I’ll be in the record books as ETA’s bloodiest militant.”
“Jesus, man, enough is enough.”
“My friend is not worth less than a hundred dead. I’ll keep count. Every time I knock one off I’ll mark a check in a notebook.”
“That means you’re turning the armed struggle into a personal matter.”
“And who cares what you think, jerkoff. You’d be better off learning to breathe when you sleep.”
79
THE TOUCH OF THE JELLYFISH
Perhaps it was cooler than Joxe Mari had thought it would be before they set out, but he didn’t notice until he and Patxo, hunched over in the backseat, their faces close to their knees so they wouldn’t see, wouldn’t know, arrived at the house where the boss or one of the bosses was waiting. The fact is that when their guide told them he had to bring them to an interview with some higher-ups, Patxo and he thought they’d be introduced to Ternera. But the man who was in that house in Bordeaux, or in the neighborhood of Bordeaux, or who the hell knows where, was Pakito.
Homeland Page 36