‘Which is to say, mud sticks,’ Tali said with a faint smile. ‘Often deservedly.’
‘It’s all very speculative.’ Galindez frowned. ‘Surely we need to link Guzmán to events by obtaining compelling evidence? Develop a psychological profile, collect forensic traces, gather witness accounts and so on.’
Luisa laughed as if Galindez had told a joke. ‘The main thing is the narrative. A framework for reading events. We’re dealing with myth and language as well as history.’
‘There’s little credibility in patching interpretations of events together without any sound evidence base.’ Galindez was aware of the sharpness in her voice.
‘You don’t get it Ana,’ Luisa said. ‘We’re talking about narratives of identity and dominance. We treat the war as a discursive episode in which we deconstruct motive and action as textual events. It gives a whole new way of representing what happened. People like Guzmán were caught up in the arguments and beliefs of those with far greater powers than them. These arguments, in effect, held them captive within a meta-discourse of domination. Against such structural and textual pressure, individual agency dissolves into conformity and compliance.’
Galindez felt a sinking feeling, realising just how alien Luisa’s conception of research was to her own, both in philosophy and method. And, she realised, she was stuck here now for the duration of the project. Uncle Ramiro had pulled strings to get her this secondment. She couldn’t back out. And she certainly wouldn’t back down.
‘Luisa, the argument that obedience to the State neutralises the moral responsibility of the individual was thrown out at the Nuremberg trials,’ Galindez said. ‘It isn’t psychologically or morally sustainable.’
‘I did tell you we’d disagree about these things.’ Luisa shrugged. ‘Just do your thing, Ana, and we’ll do ours. Call it disciplinary diversity if you like.’
Galindez didn’t like it. Luisa said she wanted my expertise but it doesn’t feel like it now. There was a silence.
Natalia looked across the table at Galindez. ‘Were those people at Las Peñas killed inside the mine, Ana María?’
Galindez tried to concentrate. ‘They were killed somewhere else, in my opinion. There’d be the danger of ricochets in such a confined space. In any case, I found no traces of shooting inside the tunnel leading into the mine.’
Luisa coughed impatiently. ‘I’m sure Ana María can provide us with any technical details in due course.’
Her tone was starting to infuriate Galindez. Technical details? Galindez looked at her notes. ‘Luisa, you’re certain there’s no evidence of any atrocities being connected to Guzmán?’
‘I said there’s no evidence of his direct involvement. A number of execution sites are mentioned in his diary. One was excavated recently and contained half a dozen bodies. It’s highly likely Guzmán’s brigade carried out the executions. I’m sure he passed on orders from Franco’s headquarters but that to my mind isn’t the same as being physically involved.’ Luisa consulted her papers. ‘Let’s move on to the next item on the agenda: Toni has some good news.’
‘Indeed I have. I’ve been liaising with the policía nacional. They’ve given us access to Guzmán’s old headquarters on Calle de Robles,’ Toni said proudly.
Galindez felt a shiver of excitement. This was more like it: access to a potential source of real evidence. Mierda, his HQ. ‘It’s still standing?’ She tried not to sound excited.
‘It certainly is. Though it’s not in use any more. In fact, it’s rather run-down. Certainly not as it was when he was there,’ Toni said.
‘History isn’t preserved in aspic,’ Luisa muttered without looking up from her notes.
‘Still,’ Toni continued, ‘it’s worth a look. Up for it, Ana?’
‘Of course. Will I be able to do some forensic tests?’
‘The time available to us is limited at the moment. An observational visit is all for now, Ana María. The requirements of positivist science will have to wait,’ Luisa said.
Puta madre. What is her problem? ‘Naturally, I’m keen to visit it. Are we all going together?’ Galindez struggled to contain the irritation in her voice.
‘I’ve already been there.’ Luisa’s voice was smug. ‘After Toni and I met with the policía nacional they took us over there. It’s atmospheric – but very empty.’
Galindez bit her lip. Luisa could easily have phoned and invited her. She suspected she wanted to remind her who was in charge here. ‘So when can I go?’
‘We’ll have the key by Thursday,’ Toni said.
‘Fine.’ Galindez hid her impatience. ‘Thursday it is.’
‘And you, Tali?’ Toni asked.
‘By all means go, Tali,’ Luisa said. ‘We can’t have Ana going alone. But you two shouldn’t build your hopes up. It’s quite empty.’
Galindez looked at Tali. Nothing wrong with building your hopes up, she thought.
‘By the way,’ Tali took a large document from her bag and slid it across the table, ‘I made you a copy of Guzmán’s diary, Ana María.’
‘Gracias.’ A sudden thought occurred: ‘Luisa, when the skinhead attacked me, he asked where “the book” was – do you think he meant this diary?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. It’s not a secret. We’ve discussed it with other academics, though we’re not sharing all of its contents until we’ve completed the report. Perhaps we should keep the original under lock and key. Toni?’
‘There’s a safe in the admin office. I’ll put it in there.’
Luisa checked her watch. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, I’m teaching in five minutes.’
Toni got up. ‘Me too. How do you feel now, Ana María?’
Galindez flexed her right arm and winced. ‘I’ll live.’
‘OK. Hasta pronto.’
Galindez heard Luisa and Toni chatting as they went down the corridor. She waited until their voices faded away. Tali was gathering her things together.
‘Natalia, do you want to go for a coffee? We could talk a bit more about Guzmán.’
‘Sure. But only if you call me Tali – everyone does. Where shall we go?’
‘How about guardia civil headquarters? There’s a new database that may throw up some information on Guzmán.’
Tali laughed. ‘I’ve had more exotic offers, Ana, but OK, why not?’
6
MADRID 1953, RESTAURANTE GALLEGO, CALLE DE ROBLES
The restaurant was alive with the smell of food and Peralta salivated in Pavlovian harmony with the nuanced aromas. He and Guzmán took a table at the back of the room, near to the stove, basking in the radiant warmth, their shoes beginning to dry. The waiter came bustling over at once and Guzmán ordered a bottle of Rioja. Peralta noticed the bottle arrived remarkably quickly, given how busy the place was. Taking a mouthful of the wine, Peralta felt a surge of sudden warmth. Relentless cold and perpetual hunger were a constant background to all the other unhappiness and discomfort of daily life in Madrid. At least until the iron-hard heat of the summer came, bringing its own new planes of suffering. It was difficult to know which was worse, Peralta thought. Cold probably. It was inescapable whether at work or home. But not here. Peralta saw the generous portions of food, the smartness and affluence of the other diners. He looked at his own threadbare shirt cuffs protruding from his shabby jacket, feeling uncomfortable but not ashamed. You learned not to be ashamed of being down-at-heel, otherwise life would be intolerable.
A plate of fried fish arrived in an aromatic mist of garlic and lemon, the golden slices piled high.
Guzmán took several pieces and pushed the plate towards Peralta. ‘For Christ’s sake, man, eat. You look like you haven’t had a bite all week.’
Peralta lifted a slice of fish onto his plate. ‘To be honest, it’s been hard recently. The niña was ill and María and I had to give her some of our food to try to build her up a little. I’m hoping María gets pregnant again soon, though. I’ve always wanted a son.’
Guzmán looked at h
im inquisitively. ‘Your wife’s General Valverde’s niece. Why doesn’t she get him to help out?’
Peralta sipped his wine. ‘She isn’t in his best books. He was angry with her…’ His voice trailed off.
‘Don’t leave me in suspense, Teniente. Why?’ Guzmán said, chewing happily.
‘Well…’ Peralta looked sheepish. He took another drink. ‘Her choice of husband. The general was so incensed when she married me that he has very little to do with us. He won’t use any influence even for the sake of her or the baby.’
‘Mierda. That’s not true. He got you this job, didn’t he? It pays more than pounding the beat or locking up tarts.’
‘So it should,’ Peralta said moodily. ‘But when you put it like that, I suppose he did think I would benefit from joining you here, sir.’
‘See, even for the general, blood’s thicker than water.’ Guzmán smiled. ‘And you’ll certainly see just how thick blood is, working with me.’ He raised his glass, amused at Peralta’s worried expression.
Peralta watched with intense interest as the waiter took away their empty plates and returned with a large bowl of steaming beef stew. Guzmán heaped stew onto his plate and then slid the bowl across to Peralta.
‘They say loyalty is its own reward,’ Guzmán said, spooning beef into his mouth, ‘but there are plenty of other rewards in this job, I can tell you.’
‘So all that’s required is loyalty?’ Peralta was distracted, his expression suggesting he could barely restrain himself from falling upon the stew. ‘Remain loyal and there’s jam tomorrow?’ He raised his spoon and then added quickly, ‘Not that I’m suggesting we should be anything but loyal – to the proper authorities, of course. But they always say good times are just around the corner and that’s where they always stay.’
‘Loyalty brings its rewards. Believe me. That and obedience.’
Peralta nodded uncertainly, his eyes averted while he began to wolf down his stew, undeterred by the fact that it was too hot to eat comfortably. Hunger did that to you, Guzmán thought, watching Peralta eagerly gobbling his food. Hunger concentrated your desire for something you once took for granted into a craving that narrowed your focus intensely. That was why starving prisoners was such a good idea. Starving people will do a great deal for a very small amount of food. It had been a long time since Guzmán had gone hungry, he had made sure of that, but he still remembered what it was like.
‘Let me be straight with you,’ he said. ‘You were foisted on me by Valverde. It’s possible he thought he was doing you a favour, though I’m sure this is hardly your preferred line of work.’
Peralta signalled his agreement through a large mouthful of well-cooked beef.
‘However,’ Guzmán continued, ‘you can have the last laugh. It’s very simple. All you have to do is buckle down, do what you’re told and you’ll get regular pay and plenty of perks. This is your job now. It’s what pays the rent. You even get the thanks of the Head of State himself.’
‘We can’t eat thanks,’ Peralta said glumly.
Guzmán shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ and all His saints, coño, can’t you see when you’re on to a good thing?’ He picked up the empty bottle and handed it to the waiter. A moment later the man brought another bottle. Guzmán filled their glasses. ‘Many men would love to be in your position. Power, independence, freedom to do your job. More importantly, other men would know in a job like this you can fill your belly if you know how. In this line of work, people want to be your friend. They want to oblige you, to be on the right side.’
‘You mean they want to bribe you?’ Peralta asked, with a vague hint of reproach.
‘No. That would cost too much and they can’t be certain they can trust you anyway. But that’s the beauty of it, Acting Teniente. What they can afford is to offer something. The butcher gives you a cut of the best meat, the fishmonger the freshest of his fish, the baker always has a loaf warm from the oven and just for you. In cafés your money is no good. Not because they like you,’ he paused, his face flushed with the drink, ‘certainly not because they like you, but because they fucking fear you. And with good reason.’ Guzmán watched as the teniente filled his plate again.
‘See?’ he said. ‘You’re getting used to it already. Joder, you’re eating for two.’
‘It seems wrong,’ Peralta said. Guzmán noticed the teniente carried on spooning stew onto his plate anyway.
‘It’s the way it is.’ Guzmán pushed his empty plate aside and pulled the bowl of stew in front of him, dispensing with niceties. ‘From the top down. You know the stories about Franco’s wife, Doña Carmen and her shopping habits?’
‘Which ones?’
‘About how she visits the jewellers’ shops when she’s in Madrid. Like some sort of queen. She descends on them, buenos dias, lovely piece of jewellery, how much is it? Oh really? How kind, thank you. And she’s off with a new brooch or ring or whatever. Never has to get her purse out or ask her husband if they can afford it. Because they don’t buy it. They take what they want. That’s why they call her Doña Necklaces. Though not to her face obviously.’
‘But…’ Peralta struggled for the words, ‘surely that just reflects the esteem we all hold for the Caudillo. People give her gifts to demonstrate their…’ He stopped. Guzmán was moving his hand in a gesture suggesting masturbation.
‘She does it,’ Guzmán said simply, ‘because she wants to and because she can.’
‘Doesn’t mean we can,’ Peralta said.
Guzmán shrugged. ‘Yes it does. Everything’s relative, chico. The big fish take a big slice of the best. The little fish take a smaller slice of the not so good. That’s how it works, just like the army: a hierarchy. We’re not quite at the bottom either, amigo. You can be comfortable if you accept your place in things. Like a part in a machine. You work properly, you get oiled.’
‘And if you don’t?’
Guzmán snorted. ‘You get replaced. Remember that, Teniente. Any time you feel this job is too distasteful or beneath you. Any time you think you know better or that your personal code of honour prevents you from doing something, I can walk out of the door of the comisaría and find someone who’d take your place in five minutes flat. And, let me tell you, if you fuck about and don’t pull your weight, that’s exactly what I will do.’
‘Hardly good recruitment practice for the police,’ Peralta said stuffily.
‘Teniente, just remember we’re not the police. We’re not the guardia civil and we aren’t the Little Sisters of Piety. We are what we are. People ask sometimes what I did in the war. Peralta, I never left the fucking army. For us, there’s still a war on.’
He gestured to the waiter. The man came immediately, gliding through the crowded tables with practised ease.
‘At your service, señores. I trust everything was to your satisfaction? Algo más? Coffee? A brandy?’
‘Both,’ Guzmán nodded, ‘and make the brandy Carlos Primero.’ The waiter took their plates and retreated to the kitchen, maintaining his vague professional smile.
‘Nothing but the best for us today.’ Peralta smiled sheepishly.
‘You know who’s paying for this?’ Guzmán asked.
Peralta felt a moment of panic, wondering if perhaps this was a joke which would end with him as the butt of Guzmán’s humour. ‘Me?’ he asked, uncertainly.
‘Could you afford it?’ Guzmán sneered. ‘No, of course not, and I’m certainly not paying. It’s on the house. Don’t look so worried, they know it. I eat here a lot – as you can imagine, since it’s free.’
‘Just like that?’
Guzmán looked over to the bar. ‘The owner’s sister was inclined towards the Reds. She was arrested handing out leaflets about the need for democracy two years ago. Can you imagine? Hostia, it’s like they’re simple or something. They lost.’ His voice thickened with anger. ‘You’d think they’d try and blend into the background. But no. So she ended up at the comisaría. She was no real threat. But she’d mixed w
ith those people, the ones who organised it, printed the leaflets. Those were the ones we wanted.’
‘So she gave you the information in return for her freedom?’
Guzmán looked incredulously at the teniente. ‘Hardly. We don’t bargain with Reds and she’d committed an act of treachery. That carries a death sentence.’
‘And how does that lead to you eating here for nothing?’ Peralta asked.
Guzmán sighed. ‘First of all we stripped her naked and then we put her head in a bucket of water. Well, the sarge did, he enjoys it so much it was a shame not to let him. Didn’t take long. You just slowly increase the length of time they’re under water. Then give them a few minutes to recover and do it again. Have a fag while they dry out and then back under they go. She didn’t last long before we’d got every name she could remember.’
‘And the owner paid for her freedom with free meals?’
‘Not at all,’ Guzmán said. ‘One of the names she gave us was his. He was remarkably cooperative. Now he gives us information and we eat here for nothing. And, as long as he keeps his nose clean, he stays alive. The chef ’s excellent, as you’ll have noticed.’
‘But what about his sister?’
‘She got ten years’ hard labour. She’s in one of the camps now, along with a load of other Reds, perverts, a few Jews and lots of gypsies, I imagine.’
‘So him giving you free meals wasn’t a bribe to try to save her?’
‘Save her?’ Guzmán laughed. ‘He didn’t try to save her. He saved himself.’
Peralta watched as the waiter poured coffee and then set down two large glasses of brandy. Raising his glass, he inhaled the rich aroma.
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 13