The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘Do you always drink brandy this early in the evening, señorita?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘I really don’t think you need worry about that, señor. I drink what I like, when I like.’ She called the waiter back. ‘The gentleman will have a brandy as well.’

  Guzmán offered his hand. ‘Leo Guzmán. You’re Señorita Torres, I believe?’

  ‘Heavens, you must be a detective, Señor Guzmán.’ She offered him a cigarette from a monogrammed silver case. Blond tobacco, he noticed, probably American. He took the cigarette anyway, though he would find it weak and uninteresting. Unlike Señorita Torres.

  ‘You’re right, I am a policeman,’ he said as he lit her cigarette. ‘I saw your name on the place setting and thought you’d probably be an old dear who knits socks for the party. I’m very glad you’re not.’

  Magdalena gave him a faint smile. ‘I find it quite a relief myself.’

  Distracted, he ran a finger inside his collar. ‘Do you think it’s warm in here?’

  ‘Not really, I found the sea breeze a little cool if anything.’ She glanced round as the hall hummed with the noise of hundreds of conversations. ‘I often wonder what people at these functions find to talk about, don’t you?’

  ‘They talk about themselves,’ Guzmán said, trying not to stare at her breasts.

  ‘I expect you’re right.’ She cast her eye over a table of high-ranking officers. ‘That would explain why they all look so bored.’

  They were interrupted as the waiter brought their brandies. Magdalena took a sip, looking at Guzmán over the rim of the heavy glass. As she put the glass down, he saw a faint trace of lipstick on the rim. His eyes moved lower, dwelling on the pearls round her neck. Tasteful and expensive, like her clothes. Like her.

  ‘I’m not surprised to meet a policeman here,’ she said, observing their fellow guests. ‘This place is crawling with black marketeers and criminals.’

  ‘Does that include you?’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘Are all policeman so suspicious or is it just you?’

  ‘It’s just me. Since I’m not on duty, call me Leo, will you? What shall I call you?’

  ‘Señorita Torres usually works rather well.’ Her voice was clipped and precise. ‘I mention the criminal element because my father runs a small import business. He trades with all manner of people and a lot of the more disreputable ones are here tonight, unfortunately.’

  ‘Imports? You need to come from an influential family to get on in that business.’

  ‘You know about these things?’ Magdalena rested her elbow on the table, letting the smoke from her cigarette spiral upwards. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘It’s simple enough,’ Guzmán said. ‘Even a woman can understand it.’

  Magdalena pressed a hand to her chest. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’

  ‘First, you need a father in the military,’ Guzmán continued, ‘preferably a confidant of Franco. Failing that, you’d have to bribe someone extremely important – General Mellado would be an excellent choice because he’s never offended by people offering him money. In fact, a large number of Republicans paid him vast sums not to execute them during the war.’

  ‘What a softie.’ Her smile was contagious, though he was not sure what amused her.

  ‘Not really. He took their cash and then shot them anyway.’ He noticed her expression. ‘Did I shock you? Military matters can be too strong for a lady. I apologise.’

  ‘Christ, you don’t have a very good opinion of women, do you?’ Magdalena said. ‘I thought you were intelligent but I must say, you’re doing rather a good job of keeping it hidden.’

  Before Guzmán could say any more, the guests rose as the general came down the wide marble stairs, flanked by four grim-faced trumpeters. At the bottom of the stairs, Mellado paused to catch his breath, his face florid. Behind him, his bodyguards stared at the guests with malevolent suspicion. Guzmán noticed the scar-faced driver among them.

  As Mellado and his retinue slowly proceeded past the bishop, the old man put down his pipe and reached into an inside pocket, presumably for his tobacco pouch.

  A sudden shout from one of the bodyguards. ‘He’s got a gun.’ And then a sudden blur of movement as two of the legionarios knocked the bishop from his chair and pinned him to the floor. The remaining bodyguards hurriedly took up position in front of Mellado, pistols aimed at the cowering diners, keeping them covered until the bishop was bundled out of the building, still protesting his innocence.

  Magdalena’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘Am I mistaken or did that gentleman with the scars on his face just refer to the Bishop of Pamplona as a son of a whore?’

  ‘He did,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Just before he punched him in the face for a second time.’

  With the excitement over, Mellado went to his table on the dais from where he looked down at the other diners, causing the conversations on the nearest tables to fade into nervous silence as he glared at them. Finally, with Faisán’s help, the general took his seat alongside the various local dignitaries invited to dine with him. They would be paying for that privilege through the nose, Guzmán was certain.

  Mellado was even more drunk than usual, Guzmán noticed, though that was no surprise. There was only one real surprise this evening and that was the woman sitting next to him. She was stunning.

  ‘I knew a Torres,’ he whispered. ‘He was a general. I hated the sour-faced bastard.’

  ‘Really?’ Magdalena put a cigarette in her lips and leaned forward for a light. She sat back and exhaled a ball of smoke. ‘Not the General Torres, the Butcher of Bilbao?’

  ‘That’s him. In my opinion, the man was a complete shit.’

  ‘Actually, he still is.’ Magdalena smiled demurely. ‘He’s my father. He owns the biggest importation company in the north of Spain. I’m the general manager, by the way.’

  Guzmán reached for his brandy, trying to think of something to say. He was still trying when Mellado tapped his glass with a knife, calling for order. He looked out over the assembled diners, causing fidgeting among some of the guests. Mellado’s kitchen might boast a famous French chef, but his reputation for violence had an unsettling effect. No one liked a homicidal host.

  ‘Señores,’ Mellado said, bringing his eye to bear on the nervous audience. ‘Welcome to my annual fund-raising dinner in support of the Sección Femenina of the Falange.’ His words were greeted with a ripple of polite applause. Several rotund women sitting nearby blushed gratefully. ‘We know the good work these ladies do,’ he continued, ‘and the work they’ve done in the past, corralling and imprisoning those verminous whores who contravened the laws of God and Spain by taking part in the conflict against us, betraying both their country and their own natural femininity.’

  By now, a number of ruddy matrons were waving their fans with increased vigour. Such eloquent flattery was most unexpected from the Military Governor.

  ‘I’ll tell you now,’ Mellado said, raising his voice, ‘you may think these vinegar-faced dowagers knit things for the party to pass the time while their husbands are out having fun, but they’re doing God’s work, setting an example to the rabble who still lie in waiting, hoping one day to rise in rebellion. Let me tell you, if that day comes, their blood will run in the streets.’

  Faisán leaned forward and muttered something in Mellado’s ear. The general held up a hand. ‘Naturally, I don’t mean the blood of these good ladies. I mean the Reds, the homosexuals and the verminous poor.’

  Faisán signalled for the guests to applaud.

  ‘You know the general always insists on a song at these events?’ Magdalena whispered.

  ‘I do, unfortunately,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Worse, I know all the words.’

  Mellado called for quiet. ‘Before we eat, I ask you to rise and sing the anthem of our beloved Foreign Legion – not the cowardly French version, crammed with syphilitic criminals, but our very own Spanish foreigners.’ He raised his mutilated hand into the air like a baton, pointing his pistol towards th
e back of the hall with the other. ‘Sing, you bastards.’ As the guests began the dirge-like anthem, he beat time with his gun as he bawled the words.

  ‘None of the regiment knew who that Legionnaire was

  So bold and brash he joined the Legion.’

  ‘Only another ten verses,’ Guzmán whispered.

  The singing went on for twenty minutes. It seemed so much longer. Overexcited now, the general demanded a second rendition and, as the last line ground to an end, he could contain himself no longer and fired a shot into the ornate ceiling, bringing down a large section of plasterwork onto an unsuspecting dowager. As the staff hurried to her aid, the rest of the guests took their seats, relieved Mellado had done so little damage.

  Cheered by both the singing and the opportunity to use live ammunition in a public place, Mellado launched into a speech about the occult underpinnings of democracy for a few minutes until, exhausted, he terminated his rambling discourse and made his way out of the hall, assisted by his bodyguards. His absence lowered the tension in the hall and conversation resumed once more.

  Just as Guzmán was enjoying monopolising Señorita Torres’s company, a waiter brought him a note inviting him to the general’s table.

  ‘Would you excuse me? I’ll only be a minute,’ he muttered, looking round belligerently at several dapper young officers scattered about the nearby tables.

  ‘Of course. I’ll chat to the bishop,’ Magdalena said, noticing the bishop tottering back to his seat just in time to prevent the waiter making off with his lobster. The waiter backed away cursing, his hopes of selling the platter on the black market suddenly dashed.

  Before Magdalena could speak to him, she sensed someone standing behind her and turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw the short plump man leaning on his walking stick.

  ‘Señor Bárcenas.’ Her tone suggested she’d discovered something vile on her shoe.

  ‘Since you’re alone, perhaps I should join you?’ His voice dripped with bogus charm.

  ‘You most certainly may not. I’ve already made it quite clear I don’t want you as a business partner and I certainly don’t want to sit at the same table as you.’

  ‘You’d be wise to accept my offer,’ Bárcenas said, spraying spittle.

  Magdalena glared at him. ‘Was that a threat?’

  ‘It’s simple business sense. Your father’s incapable of running things and you...’ He paused to mop his thick lips.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’re a whore.’

  Magdalena took a sip of wine. ‘Go away, you odious little man.’

  ‘A business like yours needs a man at the helm.’ His eyes flicked over her neckline.

  ‘Since I doubled our profits over the last two years, I scarcely think we need the dubious benefit of your presence in the company, Señor Bárcenas.’

  ‘You’re alone and women on their own are always vulnerable.’

  ‘I expressed my sentiments a moment ago,’ Magdalena said angrily. ‘I could rephrase them in the language of the gutter, but it wouldn’t be polite to tell you to fuck off. Though, frankly, that’s my answer.’ Behind Bárcenas, she saw Guzmán returning from the general’s table. ‘Do go away before you’re sorry, Señor Bárcenas.’

  ‘I’ll ruin you. It’s about time people knew what a slut you are.’ Bárcenas frowned.

  ‘Take your offer and shove it up your arse,’ Magdalena snapped. She glanced across the table. ‘Sorry, Bishop.’

  The bishop kept his head down, shovelling lobster into his mouth while keeping a wary eye on the waiter. ‘I’ve heard worse this evening, my child, believe me.’

  Bárcenas lifted the cane in his right hand. ‘No one talks to me like that.’

  ‘I think the lady made herself clear,’ Guzmán said, behind him.

  Bárcenas turned, angrily. ‘Who do you think you’re—’

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Guzmán snatched the cane from his hand, snapped it and threw the pieces to the floor. ‘Get out, before I do the same to you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t hit a cripple?’ Bárcenas spluttered.

  Guzmán shrugged. ‘I’ve had plenty of practice.’

  As Bárcenas hobbled away, Magdalena signalled the waiter to bring more wine.

  ‘Who was that?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘Alfredo Bárcenas. He’s chairman of the local branch of the party and a black market racketeer.’ She unfolded her napkin as the waiter brought her lobster. ‘We don’t get on.’

  Guzmán paused. ‘If you like, I’ll go after him and beat him senseless, it’s no trouble.’

  ‘Don’t waste your time.’ She ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I thought you’d abandoned me for the general.’

  ‘Do I look stupid?’ Guzmán asked. He saw her expression. ‘What are you laughing at?’

  Magdalena put her hand on his. ‘I’m not laughing at you, Comandante. I’m enjoying myself.’

  Guzmán looked at her for a moment. ‘So am I.’

  Three hours later, Guzmán and Magdalena were still at their table amid a circle of empty glasses, talking. The staff watched them, wishing they would leave.

  ‘Do you have plans for tomorrow, Comandante?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m going up to the guardia civil barracks in Oroitz. My corporal and I have some work to do up there before I can go back to Madrid. How about you?’

  ‘I’m taking my father up to our hunting lodge tomorrow morning. It’s not far from Oroitz, perhaps you’d like to call in? You can say hello to him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d like that. Last time I saw him, I almost ordered my men to shoot him.’

  ‘Really?’ She gave him an amused smile. ‘Why is he still alive then?’

  ‘It’s simple. My men disobeyed me.’

  She breathed out smoke. ‘You’d have done the world a favour, believe me.’ She gave him a long look. ‘I really would be grateful if you’d drop by, I could use some support.’

  ‘In that case, I will,’ Guzmán said. ‘As long as he behaves himself.’ As they went out into the courtyard, the scar-faced legionnaire and the rest of Mellado’s bodyguards emerged from the shadows.

  Scar-face broke the silence. ‘Can I have a word, sir?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Magdalena said to Guzmán. ‘I’ve got my car parked out front.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘A woman with a car?’

  ‘I know.’ Magdalena laughed. ‘Whatever next? I’ll wait for you on the drive.’ The sound of her heels faded away down the path.

  ‘What can I do for you, soldier?’ Guzmán asked.

  Scar-face tossed his cigarette to the ground. ‘Over here.’ He went to the darkened alcove at the end of the cloister. ‘I seen you this evening.’ The legionnaire’s stale breath soured the air. ‘Chatting to that puta while the general was speaking. Both of you laughing at him.’

  Guzmán felt a familiar sensation. A flame held to a fuse. ‘What did you just say?’

  Scar-face grinned, his broken teeth glinting in the faint light of the courtyard. ‘You heard. The general thinks you’re his friend. We think different.’

  ‘“We”?’ Guzmán repeated. He heard a soft noise behind him and turned. ‘You brought your pals,’ he said, giving the big shadowy figures a look of contempt.

  ‘We look after the general,’ Scar-face said. ‘And if you don’t behave properly with him, we’ll break every fucking bone in your body.’

  Guzmán gritted his teeth. ‘You’re out of line, Private.’

  ‘Don’t try and pull rank,’ Scar-face muttered. ‘Just watch it in future, or we’ll come calling.’ He spat onto the cobbles. ‘But first, we’ll call on that blonde you were with.’

  Guzmán walked away through the cloisters, hearing their laughter behind him. Four veteran legionnaires would be difficult to take on, even for him, he reflected, standing at the entrance to the mansion. A vein in his temple throbbed.

  Magdalena was leaning on one of the Grecian pillars by the entrance, a fox fur st
ole draped round her shoulders. She exhaled a pale cloud of smoke. ‘I’ll give you a lift to your hotel if you’re ready.’

  A red blur swept across his vision. The fuse sparking into flame.

  ‘I think I left something in the general’s office. Could you give me five minutes?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll wait in the car.’

  There were no echoes now as Guzmán retraced his path along the corridor. He walked silently, the way the Moors taught him in the war. At the door to the cloisters he stopped and slipped the trench knife from the scabbard on his calf. The blade glimmered in the darkness. Keeping the knife flat against his leg, he went in search of Scar-face.

  It did not take long. Guzmán heard the legionnaire’s voice echoing from the alcove where the women’s cells were located. One of the prisoners was weeping as the man enunciated the catalogue of torments he was going to subject her to. These men were scum at the best of times, Guzmán knew. With no war to occupy them, Mellado had allowed them to grow presumptuous. Presumption was one thing. Tolerating it was something else. It was weakness.

  As Guzmán entered the alcove, Scar-face was standing outside the cell at the far end.

  The fuse burned shorter now.

  Guzmán walked towards him silently, gauging the distance between them as he raised the knife. He was almost upon him by the time the legionnaire sensed his presence.

  ‘What do you want?’ The man’s scars had a luminous quality in the dark.

  Guzmán adopted a conciliatory tone. ‘I came to apologise. I don’t want any trouble.’

  The man sniggered. Stale wine on his breath. ‘You’d better say sorry then.’

  ‘I already left you an apology,’ Guzmán said. The knife felt like an extension of his arm.

  ‘Yeah?’ Contemptuous. ‘Where?’

  A sudden tense silence. Guzmán shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, his grip on the knife balanced and comfortable. ‘In your mother’s cunt.’

  He swung the knife, putting his massive strength behind the heavy blade as it sliced open the legionnaire’s throat, sending him reeling against the wall, already drowning in his own blood as he fell. Guzmán stepped back to avoid the last spurts of blood, watching the man’s final spasms with professional satisfaction.