The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘Absolutely, Sarge. Hey, I don’t suppose you know what language this is?’

  ‘Not really, we speak Spanish in the Dominican Republic. Is it Arabic?’

  ‘I wondered about that.’ Galíndez nodded.

  ‘I know someone who’ll know.’ Mendez went over to the phone and dialled an internal number. ‘Can I speak to Teniente Bouchareb, please?’ She waited as someone fetched him to the phone. ‘Hola, Sami, it’s me. Can you pop up to Lab Five for a minute? We need a little of your linguistic expertise. OK, thanks.’ She put the phone down. ‘Sami does a lot of translating for ethnic minority prisoners,’ she said, seeing Galíndez’s inquiring look.

  A knock at the door as Lieutenant Bouchareb came in. He pointed to the body on the trolley. ‘I can’t interpret for dead people, Sarge.’

  ‘You’re slipping then,’ Mendez said. ‘Do you know Ana María Galíndez?’

  Bouchareb smiled. ‘You were on one of my diversity induction courses, weren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Galíndez said, ‘and I really enjoyed it.’ She held out the sword. ‘Any chance you can tell me what this Arabic writing says?’

  Bouchareb peered at the sword. ‘It’s not Arabic,’ he said, ‘it’s Persian.’

  ‘Persian?’ Galíndez echoed. ‘Can you read it?’

  ‘I certainly can, I even know where this comes from. It’s a verse by Omar Khayyám.’ He took the sword from her and read:

  ‘“Drink wine. This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you. It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.”’

  Galíndez looked at him, disappointed. ‘I thought Guzmán might have got this from some Moroccan troops in the Civil War. The Persians didn’t fight for Franco, did they?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘No problem.’ Bouchareb bustled out through the swing doors.

  Galíndez stared hard at the inscription. ‘Persian.’

  ‘So now you know,’ Mendez said. ‘It’s a nice verse, don’t you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a bit sickly.’ Galíndez was distracted, wondering what Luisa would make of this. She’d probably write a book on how Guzmán was really a romantic poet.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Shit. I’m going to be late for my last appointment with the shrink so he can certify I’m officially fit for work. Another hour of my life wasted.’

  ‘I don’t know why you say that,’ Mendez said. ‘An hour with a man who actually listens when you’re talking? Heaven.’

  Galíndez snatched up her bag. ‘Can I leave the sword here?’

  ‘Sure,’ Mendez said. ‘Maybe you’ve got some laundry you’d like me to do as well?’

  ‘Next time.’ Galíndez hurried to the door. ‘Got to run.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Mendez called after her. ‘Not in those heels.’

  MADRID 2010, HOSPITAL CLÍNICO SAN CARLOS

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, Ana María.’ Dr Fernandez waved her to an expensive leather chair as he looked over his notes. Galíndez sank into the chair and listened as Fernandez summarised the course of therapy she’d undertaken with him, noting her cooperation and her refreshing willingness to be open. She was tempted to explain how she’d prepared for each session by reading psychology journals from the university library’s online collection. No wonder her responses made her seem such a well-balanced individual: they were based on extensive research. Shrinks needed a bit of directing before they reached the right conclusion.

  Not that Fernandez was unpleasant. Certainly he was much nicer than the ones she’d seen as a girl, following her parents’ deaths. Dour-faced men bullying and hectoring her.

  Pleasant though he was, the course of treatment with Dr Fernandez stuck to the usual pattern. Each session consisted of him trying to isolate some aspect of her life within one psychological category or another, focusing endlessly on irrelevant detail until she wanted to scream with boredom. But attending these sessions was non-negotiable. The guardia required confirmation she was psychologically fit to return to work.

  ‘So what have you been doing this week, Ana?’ Fernandez asked.

  ‘I finished my stint with the Vice Squad and now I’m about to start work back at HQ.’ She decided to omit her trip to the Basque country. She wanted to avoid talking about Guzmán.

  Fernandez pointed to her skinned knuckles. ‘Did you hurt your hand?’

  ‘I did it at the gym. Working out helps me cope with stress.’

  ‘Any more blackouts?’

  ‘None since the ones last year during the Guzmán investigation.’

  ‘Do you still think about Guzmán much? Your commanding officer said you were utterly determined to track him down, almost to the point of obsession.’

  ‘Of course I think about him,’ she said. ‘I was carrying out an investigation into his activities. But obsessed with him? Definitely not.’

  Fernandez seemed satisfied with her answer. ‘I agree, Ana María.’

  Galíndez smiled. She’d worked hard to create that impression.

  ‘Well, we’ve reached the end of our sessions,’ Fernandez said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you’re fit to go back to work and that’s what I’m putting in my report.’

  Galíndez could have kissed him. Almost.

  ‘I’m a little concerned about your amnesia,’ he said, consulting his notes. ‘There was so much happened to you as a child, your father’s murder and then your mother’s suicide. It’s no wonder you blanked out your early experiences.’

  ‘Naturally, it was upsetting, but I got over it.’

  ‘There’s something I’d like to suggest that might help. Nothing radical, just something to try and prompt some recall. Do you still have any of your parents’ possessions?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘And how long is it since you looked at any of those things?’

  She shrugged. ‘A couple of years, maybe.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be an idea to take another look and see if they evoke any memories?’ Fernandez said. ‘Unless you’d find it too upsetting?’

  ‘No, I’ll try it,’ Galíndez said, anxious to get away.

  ‘We’re done. Thanks for being so cooperative.’ Fernandez closed his notebook.

  Galíndez smiled as she shook his hand. ‘Thank you, doctor. It’s been very helpful.’

  Once she was out of the office, Galíndez breathed a sigh of relief. Fernandez’s suggestion to take a look at Mamá and Papá’s stuff made sense. She had nothing to fear from the past. She headed home.

  The door of her building slammed behind her, reverberating around the stone walls of the entrance hall. She checked her mailbox before going upstairs to her flat, unlocking the three reinforced locks with practised ease. Inside, she opened the window and an aromatic mist of garlic and hot oil drifted up from the bar below. A sudden chorus of laughter. That was what she loved about living in the centre of the city: she was never completely alone.

  She went into the bedroom and took a large cardboard box from the wardrobe. She saw the stamp of the guardia civil as she opened the lid. A musty smell. Perhaps it was the smell of home, though if it was she didn’t remember. All her memories of the Galíndez house were of a place of mourning. Aunts and uncles dressed in black. Men in guardia dress uniforms, muttering in low voices. Her mother wearing too much lipstick, propped up in a corner with a drink in her hand, whispering to people, her shrill laugh false and foolish. A house of whispers, adult faces looking down at her, giving instructions that usually began with don’t...

  Settling in her armchair, she put the box on her lap and opened the lid, inhaling the sudden dark odour of leather and tobacco. She hadn’t been truthful with Dr Fernandez about the last time she’d inspected the contents of this box. She’d never looked at them.

  As she dipped into the box, the musky odour grew stronger. Her fingers brushed over something smooth. A leather belt, and not jus
t any belt, she realised as she lifted it from the box. Papá’s gun belt with the holster still attached. She opened the catch on the holster, and saw the Star 400 semi-automatic. She smiled. Uncle Ramiro had packed this. Only he could think a young woman would want to remember her dead father by having his service pistol. She slid the weapon from its holster, her eyes widening as she realised it was still loaded. She removed the magazine and put the pistol to one side.

  Slowly, she inspected the other contents. Here was a gaudy Madonna, bundled together with a few items that called her mother’s aesthetic taste sharply into question. Cheap domestic relics made all the more poignant knowing they belonged to a life cut short seventeen years ago. She picked up Mamá’s purse and stroked the scuffed leather, raising it to her nose. A musty odour of violets, suddenly growing stronger. The purse went onto the floor with the other discarded things, though the sickly sweet scent remained, thick and cloying.

  She reached into the box and lifted out a black and white photograph. A young woman in a sundress, her long black hair tied back. Mamá, the garden behind her a little out of focus, though the blurred foliage suggested summer. An awkward, shy smile. Around her neck, the engagement present Papá gave her, a delicate silver chain with her initials at the centre, AMG. Amaranta María Galíndez. Probably taken around the time her parents married in 1978, she guessed. She put the picture to one side, wondering what had happened to the silver chain. Since they both had the same initials, it would be nice to wear it.

  Disappointingly, the chain wasn’t in the box. That was unfortunate, since the rest of these things meant nothing to her. Papá’s tobacco pouch, a few flakes of pungent black tobacco still clinging to the leather. Six rather cheap-looking dessert spoons in a presentation box. An unwanted wedding present, perhaps. It was clear Mamá had never used them. In fact, Galíndez realised, she couldn’t care less about any of this stuff.

  She trailed her fingers idly over the jumbled items, deep in thought. That was it then, her legacy, a box full of dusty items even a junk shop wouldn’t want. Her thoughts were interrupted as she felt something pressed flat against the bottom of the box. Another framed photograph, Mamá and Papá standing together in a garden. He was in uniform, his patent-leather tricorne under one arm, the other draped around Mamá’s shoulders. She was clearly annoyed, resisting his attempt to pull her close for the photo. Behind them, scattered on the grass, she saw a young child’s toys, a battered teddy bear and a doll. My toys. A sudden chill as she remembered them.

  A flash of light pulsed across her vision. She looked up, wondering if the overhead light was faulty. Of course not, it was afternoon, the light wasn’t on. Far off, she heard faint white noise, growing louder. Her hands felt strangely cold and clumsy, her fingers no longer obeyed her. Oh God, not again. The photograph slipped from her fingers. A muffled crack of breaking glass. She tried to get up but her legs folded under her and she fell, feeling the floor suddenly pressing hard against her face. And then the noise began to subside as grey mist obscured the daylight and she slipped into a darkness tinged with the faint smell of violets.

  A dull pulse of painful light, red and luminous against her eyelids as the late afternoon sun jolted her into consciousness. Galíndez was lying across the cardboard box, the hard edges pressed painfully against her body. It’s happened again. She struggled to get up, her legs uncertain and weak as she hauled herself into the armchair. A strange metallic taste in her mouth. The photo of Mamá and Papá was lying in the fireplace and she leaned forward to retrieve it. The glass was cracked and the top of the frame had come away, attached now only by a thread of glue. A small wedge of white paper protruded from the gap between the photo and the thin card behind. She felt a pang of disappointment. Mierda. I only have to touch something and it breaks. She poked the broken frame. The top piece wouldn’t fit back in place because the wedge of paper was in the way. Maybe if she pulled it out, the broken piece would slot back.

  She eased the folded paper from the frame. It was longer than she’d expected, yellowing, folded repeatedly to reduce its size. Unfolding the paper, she saw ruled lines covered in faded writing. It was a list, written in Papá’s angular script. Two columns, each with a heading: Nombre, Comisaría. Some names were annotated, scored through with a pencil and a date added to the right of the entry. Twelve entries in all, only two that weren’t crossed out. José Luis Colina and the other, a few lines below: Segismundo Ochoa.

  Even in her dulled state of consciousness, Galíndez realised what this was. Twelve names. What was it Fuentes said Papá called them? His Dirty Dozen. Papá’s pensioners, the retired guardia officers paid for their silence. The dates on the paper ranged from March 1981 through to September 1991, the year before Papá was murdered. A sudden insight: the entry headed Comisaría indicated the barracks where these men were based before their retirement. Jose Luis Colina at Carabanchel and Segismundo Ochoa at Calle Robles. That was interesting, given that Calle Robles was Guzmán’s old HQ. If Ochoa worked with Guzmán, he must have witnessed some of the comandante’s dirty deeds. Christ, he might be the only living witness. Maybe he’d welcome a chance to talk about the old days, though it seemed unlikely, since he’d been taking guardia hush money for years. Perhaps she could do it another way? Get him talking and secretly record it. If he was alive, that was, given that the last entry on this list was made twenty years ago. Nothing ventured... She reached for the phone directory.

  There were fifteen ‘S. Ochoas’ in the directory. One was a young greengrocer, South American from his accent. A second call got the answering machine of a Madrid language school. Several Ochoas didn’t answer, one was abusive, refusing to believe she wasn’t selling something, and another made a very improper suggestion. She slammed the phone down on the overexcited Ochoa and dialled the next name in the book. The call was answered almost at once. An elderly man’s voice.

  ‘Señor Ochoa? Buenas tardes. This is Teniente Galíndez of the guardia civil.’

  ‘Muy buenas, Teniente.’ A slight pause. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’

  He sounded pleasant enough. For a moment, she was tempted to come clean and tell him why she was calling. She didn’t. ‘No, I’m new to the area.’

  ‘Galíndez?’ She heard his rasping breath down the line. ‘Your father wasn’t in the guardia, was he?’

  It’s him. She tried to control the excitement in her voice. ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘Are you calling about my money?’ Ochoa asked. ‘I don’t know why there’s suddenly a problem after all these years. It was always so straightforward before.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ she said, improvising. ‘So you haven’t received your payment?’

  ‘Not for three months, Teniente. I’m a veteran, you know, guarantees were made. I’ve always honoured my side of the bargain. I keep all that stuff we don’t talk about to myself.’

  What don’t we talk about? ‘Now I’ve taken over your case, we’ll soon get things sorted. The paperwork isn’t in order, that’s the problem.’

  ‘Typical,’ he snorted. ‘The woman who used to bring it was hopeless.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Look, we owe you three months’ money. What if I bring it round myself and we put in an extra month’s payment as compensation? How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds very fair,’ Ochoa muttered. ‘I’m not trying to be awkward.’

  ‘Of course not. Let’s see, I’ve got your phone number here but the address is a bit blurred, my colleague didn’t keep very good records.’

  ‘Piso 3, fourth floor, thirty-two Calle de Mira el Río Baja,’ Ochoa said quickly.

  ‘Momentito.’ Galíndez checked her phone diary. ‘Would next Tuesday be convenient, say ten o’clock?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Ochoa agreed. ‘So what happened to the other lady?’

  More improvisation. ‘She left. I’m afraid she wasn’t cut out for the guardia.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. She said she’d come at nine and rolled up a
t two. Always offhand as well, no respect. I don’t know why they let them in the country, let alone the guardia civil.’

  ‘Ten o’clock Tuesday then, Señor Ochoa. I won’t be late.’

  ‘I hope you’re better-looking than the last one,’ Ochoa grumbled as he hung up.

  Galíndez punched the air. Finally, someone who had worked with Guzmán. He must have a few tales to tell. An idea struck her. He hopes I’m better-looking than the last one? I’d better make an effort then. In the corner of the room she noticed the box containing her expensive new boots. Maybe Señor Ochoa would appreciate a woman in heels like those.

  VILLARREAL, 7.45 P.M., 11 MARCH 1937

  Ochoa sat in his tent, talking in pidgin Spanish to two of the Moors. The teniente was to be posted south very soon, they said. He was a good leader and a fierce warrior so they had got him a gift. Did the corporal think he would accept it? Ochoa examined the curved blade of the sword and saw the teniente’s name stamped on it. It would be very acceptable. Was the writing in their language? It was not, the Moors said. They had looted the sword from the museum at Badajoz. One of their number was a blacksmith and he had stamped the teniente’s name on the blade. Ochoa assured them the teniente would be delighted with their gift and ushered them out into the night.

  There were other issues on the corporal’s mind that weighed much more heavily than the Moors’ sword. Of all the things that he might do during this war, Ochoa never thought treason would be one of them. Nor that he would so readily choose such a course of action. Nonetheless, his mind was made up. He had seen things no man should see during this war but he was damned if he would stand by while the woman was killed along with the others and her baby sold to some rich party member. Even so, the corporal was not a brave man and he was reminded of that a few moments later when the first shells of another Republican counter-attack burst across the edge of the camp.

  Ochoa pulled on his oilskin coat and went outside, deciding to take advantage of the confusion to slip into the cellar and try to free the woman. Once that was done, his plan was hazy. In fact, it was non-existent. He would have to take his chances.