The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  Inside the building, Alvarez sat in the dank vestibule that served as his office. A tiny room that smelled of sweat and cleaning fluid. He would be there all night, as he always was, in case any of the residents forgot their key. Some didn’t even take a key when they went out, knowing he would be here to let them in. He remembered what Señor Bárcenas said when he gave him the job, that beggars couldn’t be choosers. At the time, Alvarez hadn’t realised he was on a par with a beggar. He knew it now.

  This was his reward, he thought bitterly. Sitting in this cramped box next to a toilet night after night. His reward for being part of Alfredo Bárcenas’s death squad during the war. It wasn’t much of a reward for what he’d done. Bárcenas treated him as a lackey, making it clear it wasn’t for the likes of him to question why Bárcenas wanted to be kept informed about Señorita Torres’s movements. He wanted it, Alvarez did it. It was that simple.

  He picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  Bárcenas answered. ‘Dígame?’

  ‘Señor Bárcenas, it’s Antonio.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Antonio Alvarez. Señorita Torres just left. It looks like she’s going to the harbour.’

  ‘Well done, Antonio.’

  ‘Would there be a little reward, Señor Bárcenas?’

  ‘All right.’ A wheezing sigh. ‘If you hurry, you can watch.’

  ‘Gracias. Could I have the money for a drink or two as well?’

  Alvarez was talking to himself. Bárcenas had hung up.

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, BAR ACUARIO

  Magdalena walked by the harbour, looking at the masts of the fishing boats against the setting sun. She paused to watch the crews preparing to sail on the evening tide. As the boats began to leave the harbour, she continued along the quay and climbed the flight of stone steps up to the Bar Acuario and took a seat overlooking the bay.

  Below, set in the cliff, she saw the aquarium and remembered when her father used to bring her here as a child. They were not pleasant memories. It was here her father had struck her for the first time when she pointed out one of the fish was actually a crudely painted piece of wood on a wire. He never cared for the truth. Perhaps that was why he and Franco were friends.

  The bar was busy and the terrace echoed with the sound of conversations. The smell of frying squid and prawns from the kitchen made her mouth water.

  A waiter came rushing to her table, short and fat, beaming his pleasure at seeing her, the way he had since she was a girl. ‘Buenas noches, Señorita Torres. All alone?’

  ‘I’ve got a date later, Enrique. I just thought I’d watch the sunset for a while.’

  ‘An excellent idea, señorita. Will the señorita take something?’

  ‘Sí, gin y tónica, please.’

  ‘And something to go with it? A few gambas and some calamari?’

  ‘Of course, thank you.’ She never turned down his suggestions and he never suggested anything she would want to refuse.

  Enrique brought her a gin and tonic so strong the tonic was just a faint echo on her tongue. He arranged a plate of prawns and squid on the table, chiding her to eat. Magdalena needed no prompting and drenched a prawn with lemon juice before biting into the salty batter, idly wondering if the comandante would like it here. She imagined he would, since they had much in common. That was most unusual in the men she associated with.

  At eight fifteen, Magdalena pushed aside her empty glass and prepared to leave. She waited until Enrique was busy before hurrying away, leaving a tip he would otherwise refuse.

  The sun had almost set as she made her way along the quayside. The harbour was empty now, the fishing fleet a series of dim lights rising and falling out at sea. The streets were dark and she walked quickly, though not too fast, since she had decided to be ten minutes late. The comandante seemed the sort of man who would want to establish himself before a lady arrived. Probably he’d have a drink and a cigarette to freshen up. Ten minutes was adequate time for him to do that without him wondering if she’d stood him up.

  Heading into the casco viejo, she made her way through the warren of narrow streets, taking the most direct route to the Hotel María Cristina. She stumbled on the cobbles and slowed, not wanting to break a heel. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, she was sure. The comandante would probably take the opportunity to have another drink. Lost in these thoughts, a few minutes passed before she noticed the sounds in the shadowed street behind her. Heavy footsteps that slowed with hers, picking up pace as she began to hurry. She was being followed.

  Most people had made their way home for dinner by now and the streets were empty. She paused to look back, seeing only dark buildings, the windows lit by muted lights. She began walking faster, aware of the men following her, the sound of their shoes sharp on the cobbles.

  She made a decision. At this rate, they would soon overtake her. She couldn’t walk quickly, let alone run in these heels. But if she couldn’t outrun them, she could outwit them. She turned a corner and headed into the tangle of narrow alleyways leading to the Iglesia de Santa María. Somewhere down these cobbled lanes she would lose her pursuers and double back to the María Cristina to meet the comandante. She was damned if a few would-be thieves were going to spoil her night out.

  The street was swathed in darkness and Magdalena stumbled as she turned into the tight confines of another alley, expecting to see the Gothic outline of the church at the far end. She paused, struggling to understand why the familiar surroundings were so different, her stomach tightening as she realised she’d taken a wrong turn and blundered into a blind alley. Anxiously, she turned to retrace her steps.

  Two men stood at the entrance to the alley, staring at her in silence, knowing they were blocking her only escape route. Behind them, she heard the sound of someone approaching slowly, accompanied by a dull rhythmic beat. As he turned into the alley, she saw him: a dark corpulent figure, moving awkwardly, supported by his cane.

  ‘Buenas noches, Señorita Torres.’ The words were exhaled rather than spoken: pursuing her required an effort unwelcome to such a large man.

  ‘Señor Bárcenas.’ Her tone suggested she had just stepped in something unpleasant.

  Bárcenas leaned on his cane, breathing heavily. ‘I told you pride goes before a fall, señorita.’ The effort of speaking made him cough. ‘And what a fall it’s going to be.’

  Magdalena glared at him, furious. ‘How dare you follow me like this?’

  ‘I dare to do a lot of things, señorita.’ The words bubbled in his throat. ‘Women should know their place. If they don’t, they have to be punished.’

  Her eyes glinted with fury. ‘Hijo de puta, lay a hand on me and you’ll suffer.’

  ‘That foul mouth needs cleaning,’ Bárcenas hissed.

  ‘Stay away.’ She stepped back, noticing the other men edging towards her.

  Bárcenas paused for breath, illuminated by pale light from a third floor window. ‘I want a share of your business,’ he wheezed. ‘I saw the announcement of your father’s death in this evening’s newspaper. You’re on your own now.’

  ‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But even so, I reject your offer.’

  ‘You’ve no choice,’ Bárcenas said. ‘You won’t be able to do much at all after what’s going to happen to you.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ She took another step away from them, feeling rough bricks press against her back. The wall of the building. She was trapped.

  Bárcenas rested his hands on the cane. ‘Show her, Carlos.’

  Carlos came forward, the sallow light glinting on the glass jar in his hands.

  ‘Are you collecting insects? How appropriate for a lizard like you.’

  ‘Let her see,’ Bárcenas said, excited now.

  Holding the jar away from him, Carlos tipped a few drops of liquid into a pile of newspapers scattered around the garbage bins. A sudden hiss, smoke rising from the paper.

  ‘Acid,’ Bárcenas panted. ‘You’ll have none of that pride when your face l
ooks like a painting left out in the rain. Luckily for you, you won’t be able to see it.’

  Magdalena opened her bag. ‘I assume this is about money?’

  ‘No money on earth will buy you a new face,’ Bárcenas whispered.

  ‘I have seventy thousand pesetas here.’

  ‘I don’t care. You’re going to suffer, puta.’

  She pressed herself against the wall, still rummaging in her bag.

  ‘Do it, Carlos,’ Bárcenas gasped. ‘Make sure it goes in her eyes.’

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL MARÍA CRISTINA

  Guzmán lit another cigarette before looking at his watch again. It was five past nine. He had expected Magdalena to be late – that was what women of her class did, after all – but half an hour was pushing it. He leaned back in the leather armchair and looked around the dimly lit lounge. It was a quiet night, a few couples at the tables, some solitary guests on stools at the bar. And no Magdalena. He looked at his watch again. Maybe he’d been wrong about her.

  That was disappointing. Magdalena Torres intrigued him: she was argumentative, stubborn and with a tendency towards aggression. He found that combination attractive. It reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t think who.

  As he reached for his brandy, his hand brushed the red rose lying on the table, its stem wrapped in tissue paper, an impulsive purchase from a gypsy near the seafront. If Magdalena didn’t turn up he could always track down the gypsy and get his money back.

  His stomach rumbled. Yet another disappointment: he’d booked a table at one of the town’s finest restaurants and the thought of the menu made him salivate. It would be a tragedy to arrive late and find all the specials had gone.

  ‘Señor Guzmán?’ An apologetic voice. He looked up.

  The waiter gestured towards a phone at the end of the bar. ‘A call for you, señor.’

  Guzmán got to his feet. No doubt this was Magdalena, wanting to cancel. He went to the bar and picked up the phone, anticipating rejection.

  It was Magdalena, calling from a phone booth. Her voice was high and strained. That was full-blown hysteria for a woman as composed as her. He heard her words pouring down the line, ‘...followed me... acid... my face... blind me... Bárcenas... three of them.’

  ‘Where are you?’ His voice was thick, anger turning to rage.

  ‘The Iglesia de Santa María, Calle Treinta y Uno de Agosto. Please hurry.’

  He slammed down the phone, threw some change on the bar and rushed down the hotel’s awning-covered steps to the taxis waiting by the kerb. He climbed into the cab at the head of the line and gave him the address. ‘Policía,’ Guzmán told the driver. ‘Go as fast as you can. I’ll pay double.’

  Threats were good but bribes worked much better and the driver accelerated, tyres squealing as he took a left and hurtled down the Alameda del Boulevard. At this time of night, there was little traffic and the taxi raced along the wide avenue towards the sea before taking a violent right into Calle Mayor, almost overturning the cab in the process.

  Grim-faced, Guzmán clung to his seat as the cab bounced along the cobbles for a hundred metres before shuddering to a halt. He sprang from the cab, throwing a hundred peseta note onto the seat as he went. He ran fast, the night-black street alive with echoes as he sprinted towards the dark Gothic outline of the basilica.

  The church ahead was silent. Anyone lying in wait would gauge his position easily as his footsteps echoed off the dark walls so he slowed, drawing the Browning to scan the darkened building for signs of ambush. As he moved closer, he heard the faint sound of breathing, shallow and rapid. At the top of steps, by the huge double doors, he saw a huddled shape. Someone sitting in the darkness, head lowered.

  ‘Magdalena?’

  ‘Leo.’ Slowly, she got to her feet, putting a hand on the wall to steady herself as she hurried down the steps into his arms.

  He held her awkwardly, unsure what to do with the Browning as she clung to him.

  ‘It was Bárcenas and his men,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘They were going to throw acid in my face to blind me. He was enjoying it.’

  He held her face in his hands, checking for signs of harm. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ She took his arm and led him into one of the narrow side streets. After a few metres, they turned into a blind alley, strewn with trash from the overflowing bins by the walls. ‘This is where they trapped me.’ She pointed into the shadows. ‘Over there.’

  Guzmán peered into the reeking darkness. ‘Puta madre.’

  Bárcenas lay on his back, staring up at the night sky, his mouth open in surprise. Surprised no doubt by the bullet hole in his forehead. Another corpse stretched out in front of him. The man had fallen forwards, holding the flask as he hit the cobbles, landing face down in the acid. Small wisps of smoke rose around his head. It was a closed coffin for him.

  ‘Where did you get a gun?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘My father worried about assassination attempts. He always carried one and insisted I do the same.’ She ran a hand over her hair. ‘He was right, for once.’

  ‘I’ve worked with a lot of men who couldn’t shoot this well,’ Guzmán said with professional admiration. As he moved away from the smoking corpse, his foot caught on something and he took out his lighter and snapped it into flame, seeing another body sprawled in the soggy refuse. ‘Who the fuck is this?’

  ‘Alvarez, the watchman at my apartment building. He tipped off Bárcenas when I went out and came here to watch the fun.’ She looked down at the body. ‘Unfortunately for him, I had the last laugh.’ She looked again at the bodies. ‘What shall we do with them?’

  ‘We’ll leave these two here, the police won’t care about them, they’re nobodies. But Bárcenas is chairman of the local branch of the Falange, it’s best if he disappears. I’ll bring my car over from the hotel and stick him in the boot. I’ll decide what to do with him tomorrow.’

  ‘You can’t just make a man disappear,’ Magdalena protested.

  ‘I can.’ He put his arm round her shoulders and she leaned against him, exhausted.

  ‘I’ve ruined your evening,’ she said. ‘Is there some way I can make it up to you?’

  ‘Yes, but if I told you what it was, you’d slap my face.’ It was a bad joke and he was sorry he’d said it.

  She stayed silent and Guzmán bit his lip, thinking he’d offended her. Then he saw her expression. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Let’s get your car and move that,’ she said, nodding at Bárcenas. ‘Then we’ll go to my apartment. I’ll fix us some supper after.’

  ‘After what?’

  Magdalena rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t sleep with stupid men, Comandante, do keep up.’

  SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN

  The room was almost silent. Steady muffled breathing. A sudden cry. ‘Mierda.’

  It was a nightmare even more horrific than usual and Guzmán jerked upright, bathed in sweat. The closed shutters muted the pallid light from the street, creating pale diagonals across the walls. The air was warm and stuffy, filled with a heady odour of sweat, expensive perfume and sex. Magdalena was still asleep, her hair a blonde halo on the pillow. Careful not to wake her, he looked round for his cigarettes and saw them on the dresser by the window, next to his wallet. Since his side of the bed was against the wall, he would have to climb across her to get a smoke. She was sleeping so soundly he decided to forgo the cigarette rather than disturb her.

  He lay back and resisted his craving for tobacco for almost a minute before giving up. As he eased himself over her, he felt the warm contours of her body as his weight pressed her into the mattress. He forgot about the cigarette.

  Magdalena stirred, her voice distant and soft with sleep. ‘God, not again, Leo, please.’

  Guzmán grunted in frustration as he climbed from the bed and pulled on his clothes. Once dressed, he lit a cigarette and went to sit beside her on the bed.

  She pulled herself up agai
nst the headboard. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past six. I’ve got to see the manager of the bank at seven and then drive up to the cuartel. We’re heading into the mountains today after El Lobo.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Magdalena said. ‘The bed will feel empty without you.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Guzmán grunted. ‘Before I go, can I ask you something?’

  She brushed a blonde curl from her face. ‘As long as you don’t ask if I was a virgin. I can’t tell you how many men have asked me that.’

  ‘What did your father mean about keeping you away from Mellado’s harvest ball?’

  Magdalena arranged herself on the pillows and pulled the sheet over her breasts. ‘The autumn ball is one of the general’s more depraved traditions. He invites his closest and most repulsive friends and sycophants and provides a large number of women, usually people he’s had arrested. They have to take part in tableaux, posing in scenes from history or myth, that sort of thing. All in various states of undress, of course.’ She blew a long column of smoke up into the air. ‘Naturally, Mellado’s guests take advantage of them as they wish.’

  ‘Some of those women have been going to resistance meetings,’ Guzmán said. ‘If they have to run around at his party in their underwear, they can think themselves lucky. It’s better than fifteen years in jail for treason.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Magdalena said, grinding out her cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. ‘Haven’t you seen the queues of girls at the station? Their parents send them to stay with relatives until after the ball, terrified they’ll be snatched by Mellado’s men otherwise.’

  Guzmán went to the door. ‘Naturally, they’re ashamed, but worse things can happen.’

  ‘They can indeed. Often they do.’