The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘What do you want me to do in St Jean, sir?’ Ochoa asked, changing the subject.

  ‘I want you to take a look at the goods yards near the station. Look out for any merchandise with Çubiry labels that’s bound for Spain and make a note of the address. Do you speak French?’

  Ochoa nodded.

  ‘Then tell me what that says.’ Guzmán pulled to a halt by a large gaudily painted sign.

  ‘There’s a fiesta of Basque sport today,’ Ochoa translated. ‘Wood-chopping, stone lifting and ram fights.’

  ‘Jesús Cristo, I’d rather shoot myself in the leg. I can throw stones any time.’

  ‘The sign also says there’s food and drink available all day, sir.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll start there. If there’s drinking, it might make the locals more willing to chat about the Çubiry.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘Fucking hell, cheer up, will you?’ Guzmán snapped. ‘We’ll check out the Çubiry and then go back to Spain later tonight.’ He slowed to a halt as they reached the crowd bustling to the village. ‘Be back here at seven thirty, I’ll park over there by the war memorial.’

  Ochoa slammed the door behind him. In a few moments he caught up with the crowd and melted into the throng, turning up his coat collar, another country bumpkin come to town for the day. Ochoa was a useful man to have around, Guzmán thought, though his persistent melancholy was irritating. He was probably still pissed off at his wife for running away. He’d get over it, they always did. Apart from the ones who ended up blowing their brains out in a lonely hotel room, of course.

  Guzmán parked by the war memorial. Making sure no one was watching, he slipped off the shoulder holster and hid it with the Browning under the driver’s seat. If he was stopped by the French police, he didn’t want the complications that would arise when they found he was armed. The French were prissy about things like that, especially if they involved members of the Spanish secret police. Still bearing a grudge about Franco’s support for the Nazis, no doubt, the petty bastards.

  He got out of the car, glad to stretch his legs after the long drive. The trees were starting to shed their leaves and the village had an autumnal feel. As he crossed the bridge over the river, he saw a bar on the far side, its terrace crowded with noisy customers, and decided a drink would be in order. Today was a fiesta, after all. Pushing his way through the scrum at the bar, he ordered beer and a sandwich packed with links of txistorra, the thin Basque sausage. The spicy meat was delicious and he wolfed it down and ordered another.

  From the terrace, Guzmán noticed a stream of people heading up the road towards a field where large signs announced the Basque Sports Day. It was a popular event, judging from the number of people going in that direction. He finished his beer and followed them.

  The field was crowded. A line of big canvas marquees ran along one side and he inhaled the aroma of meat cooking on charcoal braziers and improvised griddles. In the centre of the field, some sort of competition was about to begin. To make sure he was able to enjoy the spectacle fully, Guzmán wandered into one of the tents and bought a large beer before joining the crowd waiting for the start of the contest.

  The contest involved several sturdy men lifting a large rock, the winner being the one with the most lifts. The rules were easy enough to grasp, though as entertainment Guzmán found it absurd. The other spectators, however, were entranced. Then again, watching paint dry was probably the highlight of these peasants’ sporting calendar, he guessed.

  After a couple more beers and some lamb chops, Guzmán found himself much better disposed towards watching two sweating yokels exert themselves to ridiculous levels of physical discomfort while the spectators ate and drank to excess around them.

  Something nudged him in the ribs and he turned, annoyed to find a short, swarthy peasant huddling against him. The man gave him a smile consisting mostly of gums. Guzmán stared at him. ‘Fuck off, you inbred bastard.’

  ‘Ah, Spanyol?’

  ‘No, I’m Napoleon, you moron,’ Guzmán said evenly. ‘Hablas Español?’

  The man nodded, not understanding a word. ‘Spanyol très bien.’ He grinned. ‘Les Espagnols sont forts, mais les basques sont plus forts.’ He pointed to the two men in the ring, grunting and straining as they raised vast stones above their heads. You had to give them credit, Guzmán thought magnanimously, they were strong. Strong and relentlessly boring.

  Guzmán and his unwanted new friend abandoned their conversation, distracted by a commotion on the far side of the field where a raucous group of men were tramping across the grass. Guzmán thought they were gypsies at first but as they came nearer, he saw the gaudy waistcoats and tooled leather riding boots. The fashion sense of the Çubiry Clan was becoming annoyingly familiar.

  The man at his side tugged his sleeve, suddenly alarmed. ‘Allons-y.’

  ‘Get off my arm.’ Guzmán spoke slowly in Spanish, raising his voice so the man could understand. Freed from his annoying company, he turned back to watch the stone lifting.

  Someone touched his arm and he turned, thinking his toothless friend had returned.

  ‘Merde, I thought so. It’s my friend from La Cueva.’ Etienne Çubiry gave Guzmán a yellow-toothed smile. ‘Did you bring your whisky?’

  ‘It’s going to be about a month until we get another shipment,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’ll bring a few barrels for you to try once I know the date of the delivery.’

  Etienne nodded. ‘C’est bon. We have an office near the station, ask for me or my father.’ One of his gang called out, beckoning him to the drinks tent. Etienne grinned, ‘Excusez-moi, I go now to get drunk, it’s a fête, after all, no?’

  Etienne hurried after his companions and Guzmán noticed their sudden animated conversation as he caught up with them. Some of the men looked back at him. Guzmán returned their sullen looks as he sipped his beer, deep in thought. And what he thought was that the first one of them to try anything would get his glass in their face.

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur?’

  Guzmán turned and saw a small, stocky Basque, sporting a long thick beard.

  ‘Perdón,’ the man said in a low voice. ‘My name is Fermín Etxeberria. I couldn’t help but notice you speaking to that French gentleman just now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call him a gentleman,’ Guzmán said as Etienne and his pals disappeared into one of the tents. ‘What’s it to you?’

  The man glanced round, nervous. ‘I can tell you a lot about him if you’re interested.’

  Guzmán realised he’d found an informant.

  ‘That’s very kind. You’re a good Christian soul helping a stranger, is that it?’

  ‘No one does something for nothing, I’m sure the gentleman understands?’

  ‘Only too well,’ Guzmán said. ‘How much?’

  ‘I could tell you plenty with a drink or two inside me,’ Etxeberria said. Raucous laughter came from the drinks tent. Clearly the Çubiry were getting warmed up.

  ‘We’ll go over there.’ Guzmán pointed to a tent where a man was basting lamb on a griddle. He was unsure about Etxeberria. If people sold information cheap, it was usually because it wasn’t worth having. On the other hand, since it was cheap, he might as well hear it. And in any case, the lamb smelled so good it would be a crime not to try it.

  The tent was crowded with farmers and shepherds, filling the air with the fug of black tobacco and the musky odour of their animals. Etxeberria asked for patxaran, which pleased Guzmán enormously since it was dirt cheap. He ordered brandy and a plate of the lamb, beaming at the ruddy-faced cook as she gave him a large plate of roast meat, the skin brown and crisp, the meat pink and glistening, surrounded by soft roasted garlic cloves and red peppers.

  Guzmán led his would-be informant to a corner of the tent, where seating was provided in the form of rough wooden crates. He balanced his plate on his knees while he tore open a piece of bread and filled it with roasted red peppers and garlic and several large chunks of seared
meat. He held the sandwich in both hands as he raised it to his mouth, aware of the little Basque’s avid attention.

  ‘I bought you a drink,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Be grateful for what you’ve got.’ He took a bite from the sandwich and chewed happily. ‘So, tell me about the Çubiry.’

  Etxeberria was nervous. ‘They’ve lived here a long time, señor.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘That’s right, you don’t. Keep talking.’

  ‘The Çubiry family settled here after the war with Germany,’ Etxeberria began, eyeing the lamb on Guzmán’s plate. ‘I wonder if I could just have a small piece—’

  ‘Which war?’ Guzmán interrupted. ‘The last one?’ He took another slice of lamb and added it to his already well-filled sandwich.

  Etxeberria shook his head.

  ‘Hombre, this isn’t a radio quiz,’ Guzmán grunted. ‘Be specific.’

  ‘The one before that. The Franco-Prussian war of 1870.’

  ‘Makes no difference.’ Guzmán took another bite of sandwich. ‘The French always lose.’ He reached for his brandy. ‘The meat here is excellent, I must say.’

  ‘I live in Spain,’ Etxeberria muttered. ‘I’ve forgotten what meat tastes like.’

  ‘They say it’s bad for you.’ Guzmán gestured to the woman behind the counter to bring more drinks. ‘You’ll be happier with patxaran.’ He leaned forward menacingly. ‘Though you won’t be getting that if you don’t tell me something useful.’

  ‘Grandfather Çubiry was an ex-soldier, they say,’ Etxeberria continued, anxious to please. ‘When he settled here, he turned his hand to crime: stealing horses, cattle rustling, smuggling – you name it, if it’s criminal, they’re involved in it.’

  ‘They sound like the Spanish government.’ Guzmán paused to take their drinks from the ruddy-faced woman. ‘Don’t stop,’ he told Etxeberria, ‘but try to make it more interesting.’

  ‘They say the Çubiry have links with organised crime in Paris. They have more armed men in their chateau than the local gendarmes and the guardia civil avoid them when they cross the border into Spain as well.’

  ‘So who’s the boss?’ Guzmán asked. ‘Grandfather Çubiry?’

  ‘No, señor. He died long before the Civil War. Suicide, they say.’

  ‘Really? How did he kill himself?’

  ‘He stabbed himself in the back,’ said Etxeberria. ‘The clan leader now is Grandfather Çubiry’s son, Abarron. That was his son Etienne who you were talking to.’

  Guzmán drank more brandy. ‘So really, you’re saying they’re an undesirable bunch?’ He scowled at his would-be informant. ‘I have to tell you, that’s hardly a revelation.’

  ‘They’re dangerous,’ Etxeberria muttered. ‘The Baron had his own sister killed.’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ Guzmán mumbled through a mouthful of food. ‘Why?’

  ‘She wanted to marry a man from across the border, a schoolteacher,’ Etxeberria went on. ‘Even though he was a fellow Basque, Baron Çubiry forbade the marriage.’ He swallowed a mouthful of patxaran – without wincing, Guzmán noted – before carrying on. ‘She eloped and married him in Spain. They settled in San Sebastián and had three children. Fifteen years later the war broke out.’

  ‘Fucking hell, you should pay me to listen to this,’ Guzmán snorted. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘It was fifteen years after they’d married,’ Etxeberria continued. ‘Baron Çubiry took advantage of the war to bribe some of the troops who’d captured San Sebastián. They shot his sister and two of the sons. The third son was injured but they left him alive so the schoolteacher would have a constant reminder of what he’d lost.’ The little Basque sat back. ‘They say the Çubiry never forget an insult and no insult ever goes unpunished.’

  Guzmán took a handful of change from his pocket and put it on top of a nearby crate. ‘Here, get yourself a plate of lamb.’

  ‘Would the gentleman be offended if I kept the cash instead?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Guzmán said. ‘The gentleman would be most impressed by your self-restraint.’ He got up and left the humid atmosphere of the tent, hearing excited voices rattling in Basque as people hurried towards the centre of the field.

  ‘Jesús is here,’ someone shouted in Spanish.

  Guzmán looked round, curious. He expected many things from these Basques, but the second coming certainly wasn’t one of them.

  A crowd had formed around the chalked circle where the contests took place. Inside the circle, Guzmán saw two lines of big logs arranged in parallel. He had no idea what they were about to do with those but at least it would be a change from stones.

  The crowd was blocking Guzmán’s view, but one thing was sure, whoever was about to take part in this contest wasn’t popular with the Çubiry, judging from their jeers and catcalls. He looked over the rows of heads in front of him at the object of their derision, a giant of a man, a good half-metre taller than Guzmán and much broader and heavier. The giant looked at the crowd gathered around him with a vacant expression. A simpleton, Guzmán guessed, watching his face. Strong but stupid. He seemed to have the intelligence of a small child, judging from his uncertain demeanour, smiling when he discerned a friendly voice, frowning when he heard the jeers from the Çubiry. As he turned, Guzmán tensed, seeing a mass of scar tissue on the left side of the big man’s face. He turned to a plump man next to him, his thick beard speckled with crumbs and pieces of food. ‘Who’s the big guy?’

  ‘Jesús Barandiaran, señor. The poor lad’s not good for much apart from these sports.’

  ‘And that one?’ He pointed to the other man in the ring.

  ‘That’s Javier Bidane. He’s the best aizkolari in Vizcaya – many say in all the Basque country. Put your money on him, señor, you won’t lose a céntimo.’

  Guzmán didn’t hear the man’s advice. He was too busy thinking about how the scars on Jesús Barandiaran’s face made him look like El Lobo. Not only that, the big man had a similar build to the bandit.

  Bidane was swinging his axe now, loosening up for the contest. As he watched, Guzmán couldn’t help noticing the axe seemed to pass awfully close to the spectators. Perhaps accidental decapitation was part of the contest, he thought, watching Bidane’s balletic movement as he held the heavy axe in one hand, spun it dexterously into the air and then caught it as it fell.

  Jesús Barandiaran had left his axe buried in one of the big logs and he wrenched it from the wood with one hand as his opponent finished his display. Guzmán realised the big man was about to attempt the same moves Bidane had just demonstrated. He decided to move back a few paces. As the vast Basque lifted the axe, the Çubiry burst into a renewed frenzy of insults. Guzmán could hardly blame them. This simple giant could hardly walk properly, never mind swing an axe with the same skill as his opponent. He would be better off in a circus, being booed and mocked for a living.

  The crowd watched astonished as Jesús threw the axe above his head and caught it behind his back as it fell in a gleaming blur. After several more manoeuvres, he looked across at his opponent and nodded. It was time to begin.

  There were roars of excitement as the two men jumped up onto their respective piles of logs and began chopping furiously, showering the spectators with wood chippings. It was skilful and artfully done, Guzmán observed, stifling a yawn. But it was a shame to watch men chop wood while there was still some excellent lamb to be had and he returned to the marquee.

  Inside the tent, the lamb was being pulled from the brazier and Guzmán savoured the aroma as the cooks began cutting the meat. His hungry anticipation was interrupted by a sudden commotion outside. Intrigued by the notion that something exciting or even interesting might be about to take place, he went to investigate.

  The gang of Çubiry had tired of watching the contest and were now milling round Jesús Barandiaran, grunting and swinging their arms, calling him an ape. Distraught, Jesús let the axe fall to the ground, waving his huge hands at the me
n dancing around him in a fruitless attempt to keep them away. He was too slow, Guzmán saw, as the Çubiry took turns to run in and tap Jesús on the back, cackling as they ducked away before he could confront them.

  It was unfair, but Guzmán was hardly going to get into a fight with the Çubiry just because they were bullying a simple wood-chopper. For all he knew, this might be part of the entertainment. On the point of going back into the tent, he paused as he saw the other wood-chopper throw down his axe and plunge into the gaudily dressed Çubiry. Finally, things were getting interesting.

  Bidane moved with remarkable speed and Guzmán chuckled as Etienne Çubiry took a punch to the belly that dropped him as if he’d been shot. It was clear Bidane could handle this lot on his own and Guzmán glanced round, wondering if anyone was taking bets. Disappointingly, they were not.

  Unexpectedly, Jesús Barandiaran made a move, delivering a wild but accurate punch that sent one of the Çubiry boys flying backwards onto the grass and then, without pausing, he seized another of the gang by the collar and threw him into the stack of half-chopped logs. It was obvious the Çubiry boys had no taste for a fight against someone able to defend themselves, Guzmán thought, watching them retreat across the field, yelling outraged threats at the two wood-choppers as they went.

  With the excitement over, Guzmán returned to the tent where his plate of lamb waited on the counter. He paused, hearing a strange whistle followed by shouts and laughter as someone pushed through the crowd towards the wood-choppers. Guzmán sighed and left the lamb, anxious once more not to miss anything.

  A man dressed in shepherd’s clothing was slowly weaving his way through the spectators. As he neared the wood-choppers, he whistled once more before setting off across the field at a sprightly pace that was surprising for a man of his years. When he repeated the whistle, Jesús Barandiaran obediently ambled after him.

  Realising the two men would pass him on their way to the gate, Guzmán stepped back under the awning of the marquee to avoid being seen. He watched, puzzled, as they went out into the lane leading back to town, wondering why an old shepherd like Mikel Aingeru was leading the giant Basque wood-chopper around like a tame bear.