by Vic Robbie
‘Come.’ He gestured to them to follow in the car.
‘How do you feel?’ He asked Alena as they followed the bikes down winding tracks and past ploughed fields.
‘I don’t know.’ She leant her head on the leather seat. ‘We’re out of France, but there’s still a long way to go before we are safe.’
‘It’s all downhill from here,’ he tried to reassure her and they both laughed at his joke.
49
TREES stripped bare, mutilated by shells and explosions. Yet in a moonlight bringing everything into sharp focus, they took on a stark beauty as if living again. The whiteness of the light froze everything in its beam. The rutted ground pockmarked with shell holes. Puddles of slimy green water icing over and reflecting the pale light. Nothing moved in this moonscape that was No Man’s Land. It was either the most horrendous sight he’d ever seen or one of the most perverse beauty. No gunfire. An end to the constant whining of shells overhead. A stillness like before a storm.
Except for birds chirping outside.
Weber rubbed his eyes, realising the birds weren’t part of his dream. He needed a smoke and he reached for his cigarette case and found he wasn’t wearing his coat but instead something flimsy. He glanced down and saw it was a white gown. Puzzled, his eyes swept about him. It was almost ethereal – a white room with bare walls except for a wooden crucifix halfway up and from somewhere came the sound of muted music and voices raised in song. He attempted to turn his head to the left finding it painful and looked out of a small window onto a courtyard of trees full of those damned birds.
A dull ache throbbed in his head and he put up a hand to touch its source and a sharper excruciating pain shot through him making him shake.
He heard footsteps in the corridor outside the room and he called out. ‘Hello, hello, kommen hier.’
No one came.
Pulling himself up onto his side with difficulty because the pain seemed to increase with movement, he manoeuvred his legs out of the bed. Putting his feet on the cold stone floor, he pushed himself upright. He staggered forward and to remain upright had to sway backwards and he was forced to sit back down on the bed. How did he get here? He tried to remember. All he could recall was sitting in the car on the way from Bilbao airport to meet the gangster in Pamplona.
Although he knew it would hurt, he couldn’t just lie there. ‘Where am I?’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Where the fuck am I?’
Still no one came. As he attempted another sortie out of the bed, he heard scuffling footsteps outside his room and voices and the door opened and a nun in a white habit peeked in. Seeing him awake, she gave an acid smile and hurried away again shutting the door behind her.
‘Come back,’ Weber shouted after her. ‘For Christ’s sake, come back.’
Then more footsteps, and he was pleased to see the civilian entering followed by the nun.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ he said, seeing the civilian’s two black eyes making him look like he was wearing goggles. ‘I need a smoke where are my cigarettes?’
The civilian fished out his cigarette case from a bedside locker and offered him one and lit it for him as the nun tut-tutted in the background
He sucked in the smoke and lay back and the dull throbbing in his head almost seemed to recede.
‘Don’t you remember?’ asked the civilian.
‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.’
The civilian cleared his throat not wanting to remember.
‘We were in a car crash.’
‘Car crash?’ Weber screwed up his face. He still couldn’t remember anything.
‘We were driving to Pamplona –’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘– you were sitting in the front with the driver and I was in the back. You were asking the driver a question about Pamplona. We were on a long sweeping right-hand bend and the car must have drifted across the road because a truck coming the other way hit us a glancing blow. It was enough for the driver to lose control. Although he struggled with the wheel, we went into a long skid and came off the road and somersaulted down an embankment hitting some trees.’
He took a sharp intake of breath.
‘When?’
The civilian looked puzzled.
‘When did it happen?’ he asked wanting to determine how long he’d been in this room.
‘Last night.’
He thought for a minute.
‘Why didn’t we go on to Pamplona? We still had the truck.’
The civilian looked at his feet.
‘The driver was killed outright.’
‘So?’
‘Your head had gone through the windscreen and there was blood everywhere.’
He felt the top of his head and winced.
‘You were also unconscious.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he shouted and the nun gave a nervous smile and coughed in embarrassment. ‘We could’ve lost them.’
He looked at his watch and tried to figure out the timescale but couldn’t.
‘Your men were worried you might bleed to death so we took you back to the hospital here in Bilbao.’
He thought if he’d lost the woman and child it might have been better if he had bled to death.
‘You were in a bad way,’ the civilian continued. ‘You almost sliced off the top of your head. Here.’ And almost with sadistic pleasure he passed him a hand-mirror.
He gasped. It wasn’t a pretty sight. His face had turned yellow with the bruising around his eyes and myriad cuts dotted his face. A large white bandage wrapped around the top of his head as if he were wearing a turban.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he growled and again the nun coughed and made to smooth out his blankets.
‘Go away,’ he shouted at her. ‘Get my clothes; we’ve got to get to Pamplona as fast as we can.’
The civilian hesitated as if it wasn’t the best option, but he insisted. ‘Now.’
‘I’ve a car outside,’ said the civilian, ‘and your men are ready.’
With help from the nun, who tried to avert her eyes as he pulled off his gown, he climbed into his clothes.
‘How long will it take us?’
‘About two hours.’
‘Right, let’s go.’ He stepped forward and fell flat on his face.
50
THEY managed to keep up with the two bikes even though the riders went hard for it and made no concessions apart from glancing back every now and again to ensure they were still following. All the while, Alena sat in the front holding Freddie tight, determined no one would take him from her.
Sebastian had said these men would take them to the most powerful person in the region who lived outside the white-walled town of Pamplona in the hills of Navarre. Sebastian had stressed they would need help in Spain if they were to escape and Ben presumed this was all part of the service they’d paid for. He expected them to suggest the best route to take through Spain and how to avoid the dreaded state police, the Guardia Civil.
As the countryside became more populated and the dense pine forests made way for fields with animals grazing and the odd house and finca, the riders slowed and rode with more care. Eventually, they came upon a long white-painted stone wall lined inside by tall trees so even if they’d climbed to the top of the wall it would have been impossible to see what lay beyond. The wall ran for about a mile before the riders almost came to a halt, one of them flapping his arm ordering him to slow down. Around a corner, more men, some wearing the blue berets of the region and all with carbines over their shoulders, guarded an open gate. They looked bored as if no one would dare attempt to pass them and they glowered at them and waved them through. The long drive ran past more fields and then manicured ornamental gardens in which an army of gardeners worked, cutting grass, weeding and watering plants. They rounded another bend and came upon a large white house.
Passing a cluster of barns housing what looked like a collection of exotic cars, they drove under an arch and into a cobbled courtyar
d. The riders jumped off their bikes and wandered off without a backward glance while a man wearing a white tunic and black trousers with black patent leather shoes ran down the steps of the house to greet them.
‘Please,’ he said as they climbed out of the Bentley. ‘The Count is waiting to meet you.’
Alena and Ben looked at each other with uncertainty as he ushered them up the steps and into a large reception area opening onto a huge swimming pool complete with fountains and marble statues reminiscent of a Cecil B DeMille movie set. A table was set poolside and his stomach reminded him it was hungry.
On the other side of the pool, he noticed a young redheaded woman sunbathing nude and she grabbed a towel and covered herself when she saw them.
The servant left them standing and disappeared without making a sound. As they looked around, Freddie scampered about and shouted ‘Maman, can I swim, please?’
‘Of course he can.’ The voice came from behind them and they both wheeled in surprise.
A small man walked towards them with a pecking step and rolled from side to side like a penguin. A pencil moustache was the only hair on his head and his tanned body shone as if oiled. He wore gold chains around his neck and wrist and he held a black cheroot. His paunch almost obscured the briefest of red and grey striped silk briefs. His dark eyes showed no emotion, but an interested smile played around his mouth like a prospective buyer inspecting a purchase he knew he could afford.
‘Xabi,’ he called and the servant reappeared. ‘See to it the boy has some swimming trunks... and Madame?’
He turned to Alena.
She shook her head.
‘A pity, perhaps later,’ he said with the hint of a smile. ‘My name is Conde Juan Callas Garza. I control everything in this area.’ He proffered his hand. ‘And you are?’
‘Ben Peters and this is my, um, wife, Alena and son Freddie.’
‘Ah, an American, I like America. You’re a very lucky man.’
He didn’t know whether Garza was referring to his being an American or being related to Alena and Freddie or both.
‘You must be tired and hungry after your night on the mountain.’ He led them over to the dining table by the pool. ‘Please, eat and drink.’ And he opened his hands in a welcoming gesture.
By this time, Freddie had jumped in the pool and a young maid threw a ball to him and kept watch as he splashed around whooping with excitement.
They were ravenous. Garza’s manservant brought orange juice and steaming coffee. And, while Alena restricted herself to sliced fruits of all varieties, he brought Ben a large tortilla and slices of Bayonne ham, an inch thick with sautéed potatoes.
As they ate and drank, Garza explained his role in the region and how it was his responsibility to look after his people and help get them jobs. Then when they lost jobs, he helped them to pay their bills and feed them. He thought he sounded more like a saint and several times he took a surreptitious glance at the redhead on the other side of the pool and wondered what he did for her. It was a one-way conversation because Garza expected no interruptions when he spoke and they were happy to concentrate on eating. Although several times Alena called Freddie to come and eat, he was enjoying himself too much in the pool.
When he finished his plateful and had taken another swig of coffee and orange juice to wash it down, Ben felt ready to talk. ‘Your people must love you.’
Garza gave a mock bow in appreciation.
‘Will you help us?’
Garza paused and his face hardened and it was obvious what he was about to say would be a lie because he could see he was formulating an answer. Just then the two bikers walked up to the table and one stepped forward laying before Garza Ben’s yellow notepad and wallet of pencils, and the small penknife, and Bernay’s revolver.
Garza waved away the men who retreated to the shade of a pillar.
‘What have we here?’
Picking up the revolver, Garza pointed it at him with a laugh ‘Bam, bam.’ He blew the imaginary smoke from the end of the barrel. ‘What were you expecting to do with this? Take on the German army single-handed?’
‘It’s an old family heirloom.’
‘Perhaps, if you were French. It’s loaded, were you expecting trouble?’
‘In these times –’ he made an expansive gesture with his hands.
‘And what’s this?’ Garza replaced the revolver on the table, but out of his reach, and pulled the notebook towards him.
Garza flipped it open and peered at some writing on the first page.
‘It’s no use, I can’t read what you’ve written.’
‘Neither can I.’
A smile flitted across Garza’s face.
‘Tell me, Ben, what do you do?’
‘I’m a writer.’
‘Ah.’ Garza nodded towards the notebook.
‘An American writer?’ Garza said. ‘I met another one here several times although it was years ago. Here every July we have the Festival of San Fermin and every morning we have the encierro.’
‘What’s that?’ Alena asked.
‘The running of the bulls,’ said Ben.
‘We’ve been doing it for hundreds of years even before your country was discovered.’ Garza said turning to him.
She still looked puzzled and Garza explained.
‘Bulls are released from corrals on the other side of the town and they race through the streets to the bullring where they will eventually be killed in the bullfight. The young men of the town and others who come here from all over Spain and from elsewhere run in front of them and try not to get gored.’
‘That’s dreadful for them,’ she said.
‘They know what they’re doing.’
‘I meant it’s terrible for the bulls.’
Garza laughed.
‘Perhaps. At least it gives them a chance to get their own back. Men die doing this. It’s most dangerous when they get to the ring because there’s so many of them it’s hard to get out of the way and it’s difficult to climb over the barrera.’
‘The bulls must be terrified.’
Again Garza laughed.
‘I think you misplace your concern. These beasts are a ton of muscle. They’re vicious and their horns are as sharp as knives. I’ve done it several times and I never ever felt sorry for the bulls. I now leave it to younger men; I no longer need to impress anyone.’
‘Would the writer have been Hemingway?’ Ben ventured.
‘Yes, yes, you know his work?’
‘Of course.’
‘An amazing man, such presence. A big drinker – wine, vodka. Entertaining friends. There was another writer with him on one occasion, John Dos Passos. Hemingway didn’t just watch. Every morning he’d grapple with the bulls and wrestle them to the ground.’
‘Is he a good man?’
‘Yes, I think so; I liked him as did his friends, especially the senoritas. He had fun in our town. I like all things American,’ he laughed and slapped Ben’s thigh, ‘which is good for you, is it not?’
He mumbled a reply.
‘Tell me one thing as a writer? Hemingway said when he’d trouble starting a piece of writing he would simply write the truest sentence he knew and from there the rest would follow. I tried it and I still couldn’t get a second sentence. What do you do in that situation?’
‘I go straight to the third sentence,’ he replied deadpan.
Garza thought about it, digesting his answer behind his black eyes, and threw back his head and roared with almost girlish laughter.
From the shadows, his two minders joined in not knowing what they were laughing at and Alena also enjoyed the joke.
‘You know here in my house I have a private cinema and I’m sent all the latest movies from America. I watch them all.’
Garza got to his feet and moved to stand behind Alena’s chair.
‘There is a big new star in American films, a beautiful blonde lady, Veronica Lake, you know of her?’
He nodded. He’d heard
of her although he’d never seen any of her movies. His mission to France was to learn more about their culture rather than watch films from the homeland.
Garza placed his hands on her shoulders and Ben tensed in his chair. She didn’t like it and tried to move out of the way, but he held her there.
‘If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought this was Veronica’, and Garza used his right hand to move the veil of blonde hair away from her eye.
Garza touched her as though handling an object for sale and Ben detected a change in the atmosphere like a drop in the temperature. Now he began to fear Sebastian’s offer of help might have had an ulterior motive.
‘Will you help us, count?’ Ben mustered all the respect he could manage.
‘First, tell me why you were so desperate to get out of France.’ Garza stared at him.
He glanced at Alena. ‘For the safety of my family, I didn’t want them to live under the Nazis.’
‘Understandable, I suppose.’ The count resumed his seat. ‘Then why did you risk your life in taking the car when it would have been easier and safer just to walk over the mountains?’
‘To be honest, we have to get back home to America.’
She glanced at him wondering just how far he was going with this story.
‘I’m broke, I’ve no money. The book that was going to be published has had to be abandoned because the publisher fled Paris. Through a contact, I found a man in Lisbon who would buy the Bentley and so give us enough funds to book our passage to New York and safety.’
‘Mmm.’ Garza stroked his chin as if not believing him. ‘As you can see I’m a very powerful man. The people who helped you across the mountains work for me. I understand you paid them well so they’re happy. In business, everyone has to be happy. I wouldn’t have been interested had it not been you had a Derby Bentley, which I’d like to add to my collection, a beautiful woman with film star looks and a child. That was a very impressive package. The car’s of particular interest. A three-and-a-half litre engine, six cylinders, 115 horsepower, all synchromesh gearbox and in an aluminium body. Do you know they call it the silent sports car because even at speed it’s so quiet?’