The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  He started to run.

  OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

  Begoña Arestigui stood in the doorway of the farmhouse watching the sun set. Behind her in Grandfather Arestigui’s study, Nieves was lighting the big oil lamp. Begoña took a seat at the table by the window and put on her reading glasses before she went back to her needlework. ‘I should have told you about your mother,’ she said softly. ‘She was such a wild one, she couldn’t bear country life, that’s why she went to the city. We heard she’d joined the anarchists but nothing more until the war began. She sent me one letter and the next I knew was when a drover arrived with you, wrapped in a blanket. All he said was that someone had paid him to bring you here. Much later, I found out she’d been killed. I should have told you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s Comandante Guzmán I’m angry with,’ Nieves said. ‘He was there, and yet he never said anything to me.’

  ‘But he didn’t kill your mother,’ Begoña said. ‘You said yourself it was León.’ She got to her feet. ‘There’s something I should have showed you years ago.’

  She went across to the old portraits and family photographs on the wall and reached for a large framed painting of the beach at Zarauz. She turned it, revealing a somewhat blurred sepia photograph of a tall, well-built young soldier with brilliantined hair, his arm around a young dark-haired woman, dressed in militia uniform. A note at the bottom of the photo, in Begoña’s careful handwriting. Arantxa, Bilbao, 10 Mayo 1936. ‘I don’t know who the soldier is, the detail isn’t very good.’

  Nieves shook her head slowly. ‘It could be me in that picture.’

  ‘I know. I see you sometimes and I think she’s come back.’ Begoña nodded.

  Nieves turned up the lamp, filling the room with a soft glow as she leaned over Begoña’s shoulder to look at her needlework. ‘What’s that you’re working on?’

  ‘Just a little picture of the farmhouse. Grandmother Arestigui did one in 1864. I thought I’d hang this one next to it.’ She looked up, adjusting her reading glasses. ‘Maybe you could do one in ten years? Keep the tradition going?’

  Begoña frowned as she heard footsteps outside. ‘Dios mio, I wonder who that could be?’ Someone pounded on the door and she hurried to open it.

  Magdalena Torres tumbled into the room her face flushed, her shoulders heaving as she tried to catch her breath. ‘Buenas tardes,’ she panted.

  Begoña and Nieves stared at her. This was not the Magdalena Torres who appeared in the society pages of the local paper, her hair styled like Graciela Kelley. Her hair was tousled, speckled with bits of bark and leaves, her expensive boots caked in mud.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry to bother you,’ Magdalena said, putting a hand to her chest as she tried to steady her breathing. Begoña noticed something else. Magdalena was frightened.

  ‘Kaixo, Señorita Torres,’ Begoña said. ‘Did you find the figurines by the gate?’

  Magdalena took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice trembled with emotion. ‘In the mountains, the snows are burning.’

  For a moment, time stopped. ‘Santa María. So it’s you?’ Begoña said, her eyes wide.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Magdalena said, almost apologetic. ‘And I’ve got bad news.’

  Begoña took off her apron and carefully placed it on the table. Then she took off her reading glasses and put them on the apron before turning back to Magdalena. ‘Ongi etorri,’ she said. Welcome. She opened her arms and they embraced.

  ‘A sus órdenes, señorita,’ Nieves said. ‘We never expected to meet the quartermaster.’

  ‘That was the idea,’ Magdalena said. ‘To preserve secrecy. But things have changed.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Begoña asked, unsettled by the tone of her voice.

  ‘Mikel Aingeru betrayed us. He gave the cell away to the fascists and now they’re coming for you.’

  Begoña gasped. ‘Why would Mikel do such a thing?’

  ‘He’s finally taking revenge on Baron Çubiry. They’re going to kill the Baron in return for betraying us.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Nieves asked, pale-faced.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any weapons?’ Magdalena held up her small Colt. ‘I’ve only got this little thing.’

  Nieves went to the grandfather clock and opened it. Carefully, she lifted out a canvas bundle. ‘It’s a British Webley,’ she said, unrolling the bundle to reveal the pistol inside.

  Begoña knelt by the fireplace, rolled back the rug and lifted one of the floorboards. She took out another canvas-wrapped package. ‘We’ve a couple of Mausers as well.’

  ‘Eskerrik asko.’ Magdalena took the pistol from her. ‘So what shall we do?’

  ‘You’re our leader now,’ Begoña said. ‘We’ll do what you say.’

  ‘I haven’t had much practice at this, I’m afraid,’ Magdalena said. ‘Hardly any, in fact.’ She thought for a moment. ‘We stand a better chance outside,’ she said finally. ‘It’s dark and they don’t know the countryside like we do.’ She gave Begoña an embarrassed smile. ‘I mean like you do, señoritas.’

  Nieves replaced the carpet over the loose floorboard. When she got up, she was holding a Mauser. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘We can hide near the sacred pool. In the dark we’ll have the advantage.’

  Begoña drew back the curtain. ‘There are headlights coming up the road.’

  ‘We’d better hurry,’ Magdalena’s voice was tense.

  As they went to the door, Magdalena saw the photograph of the tall soldier and a woman she thought might have been Nieves but for the date on the picture. She stopped, surprised.

  ‘Who are they?’ Magdalena asked, realising she already knew the man.

  ‘My mother. I don’t know who she’s with,’ Nieves said. ‘Mamá died for the Cause.’

  Magdalena squeezed her arm. ‘You must be very proud of her, señorita.’

  Leaving the lanterns lit, they went outside, moving through the lavender towards the track. Nieves was the last to leave and she paused to lock the door, leaving the key on the window ledge.

  As they reached the track, Magdalena stopped and turned. Someone was running up the track towards them.

  Nieves signalled to the others to go into the trees as a man appeared in the ring of soft light from the house. Harsh, deep-set eyes, stubbled cheeks, leather straps glinting across his dark uniform. He slowed, staring at the pistol in Nieves’ hand. A fatal hesitation.

  The blast echoed among the darkened trees. A sudden uproar in the distance; men shouting, the sound of running feet. Nieves hurried after the others into the shadows.

  OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

  It was a mild evening and Guzmán’s shirt was soon drenched in sweat. He gulped air, forcing himself to keep running as familiar landmarks began to appear from the evening shadows. A half-kilometre more and then the road would rise to the farm, corn to one side, green vegetables to the other. And then the lavender garden where Begoña had served him lunch and sensed the coming rain.

  He had just reached the slope leading to the farm when the shooting began. Muffled small-arms fire, occasional white stammers of light in the darkness. His breathing was so loud now it was hard to tell how many weapons were involved.

  The firing lasted several minutes, ending as suddenly as it had begun. And then a few desultory shots, followed by silence.

  Guzmán lurched forward, panting so hard it seemed the ground was shaking. In fact, he realised, the ground was shaking. The truck came down the hill without slowing, forcing him to leap aside as it rattled past, crammed with hard-faced men who looked at him with hostile stares as they drove off down the road.

  The farmhouse was in sight now and he stumbled forward, breathless. There had been no sign of bodies on the truck. Perhaps Begoña and Nieves had outwitted the troops, using their knowledge of the land to avoid capture. He imagined them hiding among the ferns, or behind the rocks near the sacred pool, letting their pursuers stumble around in the dark until they tired and broke
off the search.

  There was no sign of Magdalena’s car on the track leading to the farm and that raised his hopes further. She must have made her collection and tired of waiting for him.

  As he reached the farm, he slowed, choked by the acrid smoke from the burning farmhouse. The lavender garden was trampled underfoot. The table where he’d drunk their home-made cider was overturned and broken. Inside, the house was wrecked. Drawers had been emptied on the floor, crockery and glasses smashed, even Grandfather Arestigui’s maps had been slashed or torn down. The big telescope was strewn over the carpet, smashed to pieces. Someone had started a fire in one room and the flames were now taking hold on the old wooden furniture. There was no time to deal with that and he went back outside.

  Across the track, by the edge of the woods, he found the body of a man, one of Mellado’s bodyguards, shot in the eye. So, Nieves and Begoña were armed? He felt a curious pride at the thought. He left the track and followed the path to the grove, stumbling over stones and roots as he approached the pool where a few days before he’d spied on Begoña and Nieves bathing. Through the pine-scented darkness, he heard the endless cadence of the waterfall and slowed, picturing the women struggling through these trees, pursued by Mellado’s crack troops. His eyes stung and he wiped them with his sleeve. The smoke was getting to him.

  Near the pool, he saw another uniformed body lying in the soft grass. Meeting resistance must have come as a surprise to Mellado’s troops. Once they’d come under fire, they would have taken cover instinctively. And maybe, while the troops had peered into the darkness seeking a target, the women had slipped away. They knew this countryside better than these African-trained soldiers. Right now, they were probably holed up somewhere. He clung to that thought as he searched the wood.

  A few minutes later, he found Nieves.

  She was sitting propped against a tree, looking in the direction of the pool. The dark hole in the side of her forehead was scarcely visible in the darkness. Her eyes were blank and empty, as the eyes of the dead always were, though her mouth was set in a stern rictus of anger. She was angry, Guzmán guessed, because this was her first and last battle and she knew it was lost before it began. He hawked and spat as he searched the glade, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. A few metres away, he saw a crumpled shape in the long grass.

  Begoña lay face down. She had been shot a number of times and her face was no longer recognisable. She had not gone down without a fight: he saw the body of another legionario nearby. Guzmán admired her for that.

  Something rustled in the bushes and he spun round, aiming into the dark.

  ‘Help.’ The voice was faint, the clipped tones unmistakable despite the heavy inflection of pain, bringing the terrible realisation that his final hope was dashed. He took out his lighter and used the flame to find her.

  Magdalena was lying on her back among the ferns. Guzmán knelt by her side, clumsily trying to make her comfortable. She winced. ‘Don’t, Leo, please. It hurts too much.’

  He lifted the lighter, illuminating her pale face, seeing the holes in her sweater, the black glint of blood. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he lied. ‘I’ll get help in a minute.’

  ‘Can’t help me, Leo.’ Her voice was distant.

  Even now, he still felt the need to tell her he’d been right. ‘I found an underground room at your hunting lodge,’ he said. ‘Jiménez organised the resistance from there.’

  Magdalena laughed. The movement made her cough and he saw blood on her lips. ‘Don’t be stupid, Leo. That was my room.’ A spasm of pain convulsed her. ‘Esteban helped me set it up after the war, when all things Basque were forbidden. Down there, away from my murdering father, everything was Basque, including me.’ She moaned in pain as she pressed a hand to her breast. Blood welled through her fingers.

  He remembered the photographs, the papers, the cartoons and drawings, the childlike captions. Her prize-winning poem. ‘It was you.’ A statement, not a question.

  ‘Mikel Aingeru betrayed us,’ she whispered. ‘He’s a traitor.’

  ‘I’ll get you to a doctor.’ His voice was hoarse, his words meaningless. When there was no reply, he raised the lighter again. Her blue eyes still looked at him, though she saw nothing in this world now. He closed them slowly.

  The world was changed, as if he saw it through someone else’s tears. He returned to the farm and found a spade in an outhouse. He would bury them in a corner of the glade where the fragrance of pines softened the air. They would become one with their land. In time all things were forgotten, but not here. Here, time was written in stone.

  The soil was moist and heavy and the moon was high by the time he finished digging. Since she was the youngest, he laid Nieves between Begoña and Magdalena. They would look after her. For a few moments, he held her face in his hands, seeing another face in another time. A sudden rush of questions burned through his mind; none would ever be answered.

  Out of respect, he took Begoña’s scarf and laid it over her shattered face. Finally, he said goodbye to Magdalena. She was a Basque warrior, he whispered. She deserved to be laid to rest with a great sword or the splintered armour of her vanquished enemies on her breast. Since he had neither, he drew the Browning and closed her fingers around it. It could serve her in the next world as it had served him. In return, he took her small Colt as a keepsake.

  The gun was tiny in his hand as he knelt by the grave, thinking of all the things he should have said to her but had not. Those words were worthless now and so he said nothing. He filled the grave with clods of rich damp soil until the odour of loam and pines overpowered the cloying smell of blood. When he was finished, he washed in the sacred pool and returned to sit by the grave, staring into a cloudless sky washed by moonlight.

  In the darkness, a twig cracked. Guzmán tensed as he heard footsteps, careful and measured, growing closer. He moved towards the sound, slow and silent. Someone was standing by the pool. A familiar sour odour, fetid and rank. The smell of sheep.

  The old man was talking to the water, the Basque words echoing softly from the cliffs overlooking the pool. When he had finished, he took a stone from the ground and threw it into the pool. A gesture of reconciliation, perhaps. Guzmán stepped out from the shadows, sensing Mikel Aingeru’s surprise as the old man turned, peering at him in the dark.

  ‘You betrayed everything.’ Guzmán’s voice was flat. ‘And everyone.’

  ‘A cause like ours demands sacrifice.’ Mikel shrugged. ‘They’re Basque heroes now. For each that died, there’ll be ten for the next group I recruit.’

  ‘I should kill you,’ Guzmán said. Behind him, he heard the voices of the dead.

  ‘They trusted my decisions, Comandante. And it was my decision to let them die.’

  ‘That was before they knew you were a traitor.’ The voices were louder now. ‘You used them to get revenge for yourself, not for your cause.’ He tried to control his anger. ‘You even shot your own son in the back.’

  A bitter laugh. ‘Jesús was no loss to anyone. My true sons died long ago when Abarron Çubiry slaughtered my family. Letting Jesús live was a joke he played on me.’ He sighed. ‘How else could an old man take his revenge? I gave everything for the Cause. I was a king, Magdalena and the others were my pawns. I lost far more than any of them.’

  ‘Not everything.’ Guzmán raised Magdalena’s pistol and fired. The shot hit Mikel in the chest and pitched him backwards into the pool. Expanding rings of dark water lapped against the banks, the widening ripples bright with moonlight. Gradually, the water grew calm again.

  Guzmán returned to where his friends waited among the trees. There was no more to be done and he sat in darkness, listening to their voices echo around the glade. At dawn, he left them. They would lie beneath the dark silhouette of the mountain for ever, long after Franco was dust and long after Guzmán’s timely or untimely demise. Time was written in stone.

  He walked, oblivious to the vast landscape, seeing nothing but the road ahead,
hearing the sound of his own breathing as if for the first time.

  The sun rose. After several kilometres he saw a field ahead, decked in ribbons and bunting. At one end of the field was a bandstand, now a chaos of overturned chairs and scattered plates. Huge marquees had been erected, hung with flags and banners. In the distance, behind high walls, was Mellado’s country house. The gate was open and he saw groups of women wending their way towards a row of vehicles. Some were dressed as ancient Greek slaves, one wore a bullfighter’s glittering suit of lights. Further away, near the marquees, he saw several bodies in the grass.

  It had been a feast of excess, judging from the debris around him. A line of griddles, heaped with burned meat. Piles of bottles ankle deep, broken crockery. Crates of vintage wine piled by the gate. Nearby, several young women in various states of undress were assisted into a truck and driven away.

  Mellado was standing by his black limousine near the gate. The general was in his shirtsleeves, his gold braided uniform jacket thrown to the ground. He was holding a champagne bottle, taking inaccurate swigs that soaked his clothes and boots with foam. Faisán sat with his back against the vehicle, fast asleep, his chin resting on his chest. When he heard Guzmán’s footsteps, he opened his eyes, looking up at him without interest.

  ‘Fucking hell, you’re late, Guzmán.’ Mellado coughed a stream of champagne over his boots. ‘It’s been a hell of a night. The lads were celebrating after mopping up the resistance, as you can imagine.’ He waved at the piles of untouched food. ‘And they say people are starving in Spain?’ Faisán joined in the general’s laughter.