The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  7

  MADRID 2009, CUARTEL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL

  Tali took her visitor’s badge from the officer on the desk and fastened it to her shirt pocket. Seeing Galindez’s ID, the man waved them towards the metal detector. ‘Nice to see another pretty face around here,’ he grinned. For a moment Galindez’s stomach tightened. Maybe Tali wouldn’t tolerate the constant sexism that permeated day-to-day life in the guardia the way she had to. The way she knew she had to: otherwise, it would be a case of Miguel’s daughter: what a whinger.

  Tali ignored the man. Galindez was worrying for nothing.

  The lift purred upwards.

  ‘This is exciting,’ Tali said. ‘Inside the HQ of the all powerful guardia civil.’

  ‘It’s just one big bureaucracy, believe me.’

  The lift stopped at the fifth floor. It was a short walk along the corridor to the forensic department. Tali followed Galindez into her tiny office.

  ‘You know how to show a girl a good time, Ana,’ she laughed. ‘What is it you’re going to demonstrate? You made it sound very secret in the car.’

  ‘Our new database. It has all sorts of records from the years of the dictatorship. Material collected by the people working on historical memory, government departments, police and the guardia civil as well. It’s a big project.’

  Galindez logged in. The screen changed and a database search form opened up.

  ‘Who goes into the database? Suspects? Criminals? Victims?’ Tali asked.

  ‘Everyone. All those old files will be entered into it one day. That’s the plan anyway. Details of who they were, why they were recorded and any known outcomes.’

  ‘What kind of outcomes?’

  ‘Arrested, tried, accused, sentenced – things like that. If it was recorded it goes on the database.’ Galindez reached for the keyboard. ‘What shall we start with?’

  ‘Guzmán, of course.’ Tali leaned forward, watching as Galindez entered his name.

  ‘OK. Leopoldo… G… u…’ The name appeared, the name that haunted many of the documents she’d been reading lately. The name that was starting to haunt her.

  She pressed Enter and the database began its search. A small box appeared at the top of the screen: Espera Por Favor. The computer suddenly displayed a list of names.

  ‘All Guzmáns?’ Tali peered at the screen.

  ‘He’s here,’ Galindez moved the mouse, selecting a name five lines down. ‘Leopoldo Guzmán, Capitán. That’s his date of birth, 4 April 1920.’

  ‘Capitán in what?’ Tali strained to see the screen. ‘Army? Guardia?’

  ‘Army – this is from a payroll document dated 1943. Hostia, Tali, Capitán at twenty-three? He did something right.’

  ‘We already have some of those documents at the university,’ Tali said. ‘They only tell us he was paid, nothing more.’

  ‘True. None of these other matches relate to him either.’

  ‘Try just his surname,’ Tali suggested. ‘Maybe he had aliases?’

  ‘Just “Guzmán”? OK.’ Galindez typed the letters again. Nothing happened. ‘I could try including a date,’ she said. ‘Maybe the information links to events rather than people.’

  ‘Go ahead, Ana.’

  Galindez thought back to her visit to Las Peñas. ‘They said the mine where we found those bodies closed in the early fifties: let’s try “Guzmán1950”.’ Nothing happened. ‘OK, I’ll try the next few years.’ The first two years didn’t produce a result either. Her fingers rattled across the keyboard again. ‘Guzmán1953’.

  The screen exploded into a vivid red with a flashing message at the centre:

  **UNAUTHORISED ATTEMPT TO ACCESS

  RESTRICTED MATERIAL**

  ACCESS DENIED

  ‘What the…’ Galindez hit the escape key. Nothing happened. The screen continued to flash.

  ‘Why is it doing that?’ Tali asked.

  Before Galindez could answer, the phone buzzed. It was Mendez from Technical Services.

  Tali listened to Galindez’s conversation with Mendez, watching her expression change as they talked. ‘What’s up, Ana?’ she asked as Galindez hung up.

  ‘Apparently “Guzmán1953” is a password for some highly classified material. It needs a higher level security clearance than mine. Attempting unauthorised access looks bad, and the system records who did it. I don’t know what happens then. Probably a bollocking.’

  ‘Can’t you just tell them what you were doing? You don’t want your bosses thinking you were up to no good.’

  ‘I certainly don’t. That’s why it’s good Mendez was monitoring the system today.’

  ‘Who is this Mendez?’

  ‘An admirer.’ Galindez smiled. ‘And because of that, I can get help from technical services that would be difficult to arrange otherwise.’

  Tali raised her eyebrows in mock outrage. ‘You little tease, Ana. Stringing the poor guy along like that. Is that what you’re like? All talk and no action?’

  ‘Do you want to find out?’ Galindez said in a low voice.

  Tali shook her head. ‘Not here.’ She turned back to the computer screen. ‘Do you think this Mendez can do anything to keep you out of trouble?’

  ‘Yes. Mendez is a real technical wizard.’

  ‘He’s worth knowing then – just don’t go breaking his heart, will you?’

  ‘I promise,’ Galindez said. ‘Shall we get some lunch?’

  ‘All right. And then there’s somewhere I’d like to take you. It’s related to Guzmán.’

  ‘Really? I’m game. Where are we going?’

  ‘The Almudena cemetery.’

  MADRID 2009, CEMENTARIO DE ALMUDENA

  Tali edged the car out of the car park, slowing to pass groups of wilting students, all with the same torpid air of uninterest, clinging to the shadows of trees and buildings as they languidly negotiated their various routes beneath the scorching sun.

  ‘I think you’ll find this interesting,’ Tali said. ‘It will give you an idea of the things Guzmán was involved in.’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ Galindez said.

  ‘During the meeting, I sensed you’d got the Guzmán bug,’ Tali said. ‘You have, haven’t you? Everywhere we look, Guzmán crops up – yet we know so little about him.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ Galindez said, ‘I never had any interest in the Civil War before. Trying to track down Guzmán has made things I only knew from history lessons start to feel a lot closer.’

  Tali slowed at a crossroads, waiting for a lull in the traffic. ‘So much of what Guzmán and his unit did has been kept secret for too long. It’s time for everything to come out in the open.’

  Traffic was heavy and the entire world seemed in an evil mood. Cars bounced to a halt, braking suddenly, arms waving from windows, a constant blaring of horns, flurries of obscenities. Galindez sneaked a glance at Tali. Expensive clothes, arms tight with toned muscles: time well spent in the gym, her legs tanned and sleek.

  ‘So you’re in a relationship with Luisa?’ Tali asked, breaking the spell.

  ‘I was,’ Galindez said, reluctantly. ‘It didn’t work out. I’m not good at relationships.’

  Tali turned to look her, her hair a sudden cascade of gold in the bright sunlight. ‘Mujer, I doubt it was your fault. She’s not the easiest of people to get on with.’

  ‘No,’ Galindez said angrily, ‘she’s not discreet either. I broke up with her because I didn’t want it to look as if I was only involved in the investigation because I was her girlfriend.’

  ‘Tranquila, I was only saying.’ Tali held up a hand in supplication.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just…’

  ‘No te preocupes. I know what Luisa’s like from past experience. Didn’t you notice how she behaved with me at the meeting?’

  ‘I could hardly miss it.’

  The car turned a corner and passed through the gates of the Almudena Cemetery. Slowing, Tali pulled into a vacant parking space. ‘Just be careful with Luisa, she doesn’t d
o rejection. I’d keep it quiet if you start seeing anyone else while you’re working with her, that is.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  Galindez’s damp shirt clung to the hot plastic seat as she climbed from the car. The whole city was baking, the air shimmered above the huge cemetery, distorting the distant skyline of the city.

  ‘Look at the back of your shirt, you’re soaking.’ Tali laughed. An easy laugh, bright in the thick warm air.

  Galindez looked at her in subtle appraisal. ‘So why are we here, Tali?’

  ‘I’ll show you. Come on.’

  Galindez followed her along a pathway lined with rose bushes and ornamental trees.

  ‘Ever heard of Las Trece Rosas Rojas?’ Tali asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s a charity, isn’t it?’ Galindez said. ‘Something to do with social exclusion?’

  ‘It’s named after the Trece Rosas,’ Tali said. ‘They were thirteen young women, members of an illegal radical workers’ organisation. At the end of the Civil War they were held in the women’s prison at Ventas. It seemed likely they’d be pardoned or have their sentences commuted, but then a guardia capitán called Isaac Gabaldón was killed. The women were shot in reprisal. Guzmán was present, although we don’t know what his role was.’

  As they continued along the path, the air grew heavy with the scent of blossom. The path opened out and facing them was a wall. A plain stone wall. And roses. The wall was covered in red roses. Roses in bunches, pairs of roses, here and there single flowers, attached with string or wire, pushed into cracks in the mortar. At the centre of the wall, amongst the roses, a plaque. Tali stood motionless. At first, Galindez thought she was praying. Then she realised she was crying, soft tears slowly falling onto her T-shirt, her body shaking gently with inarticulate sorrow. Galindez’s arm moved around Tali’s waist as she read the plaque:

  The young women known as

  THE THIRTEEN ROSES

  gave their lives for freedom

  and democracy here on 5 August 1939

  The people of Madrid remember their sacrifice

  5 August 1988

  ‘My great-aunt,’ Tali stammered. ‘She was seventeen when they…’ She leaned against Galindez, her shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of sorrow. Galindez tried to say something of comfort, her arm tightening around Tali’s waist, her cheek pressed against her hair, trying and failing to find the right words. And then it hit her: an unexpected wave of agony, the condensation of her tragic childhood experience. Taken by surprise, Galindez surrendered to the pain she had kept at bay for so long. And the wall, with its tributes of roses, the jars of flowers at its base, the simple plaque set into the dusty red brickwork, melted under a mist of shared tears.

  They sat in silence on the stone bench. Galindez felt adrift, bewildered by her reaction to this inundating grief for a woman killed seventy years ago. And, she wondered, if Tali felt such pain for someone she never knew, how should others who lost someone feel? Those whose suffering was more recent, to whom the death was so much closer and more visible? What about me? For a moment, the sun-washed pathways of the cemetery were replaced by images of that spring morning: the pale lines of newly built houses across the road, horrified neighbours standing rigid and helpless, thick black smoke from the burning petrol enveloping the shattered car, oily flames spiking upwards from the wreckage. Mamá’s screams, the articulation of a pain beyond words as she tried to get inside the car, thinking Papá could still be alive. But Mamá couldn’t even find the car door. Only later did she realise the car was resting on its roof.

  Galindez leaned against Tali, and her tears began again, tears she never shed for her father, not even at his funeral, the coffin wrapped in the vibrant colours of the flag, carried by six solemn guardia in tricorne hats, wearing sunglasses to mask their pain. Nor had she wept after her mother’s suicide, when Mamá was too contaminated by her toxic grief to continue with the half-life she’d been trying to lead. Maybe the destruction of Galindez’s young world had been so fast and unexpected it never hurt in any conventionally recognisable way. Suddenly assigned to being that tragic little girl, defined by absent others. Always Miguel’s daughter, never Ana María.

  So this was the pain of loss, she thought. How strange to feel it now, its visceral surges reducing the world to a small space delineated by undulating grief. Tali held her until the spasms passed. Galindez wanted to tell her, to share with her. But she couldn’t. Not right now. Not until she was certain she could trust her. Things were no longer under her control, Galindez realised. And that could take some getting used to, after having been in control for so long.

  A moment came when her tears diminished. Galindez held Tali tightly, her body tense with rising need. A few hours ago, she’d idly fantasised about this across the seminar room table. Now, she wanted more. But Tali gently pulled away, looking at her watch. ‘Para, Ana. It’s getting late.’

  ‘What do you want to do now?’ Galindez asked, hopefully.

  ‘I’ll have to drive you back to the university to get your car. I’m seeing my younger sister tonight. It’s her last night in Madrid before she goes back to college in Barcelona. Sorry, querida.’

  ‘But another time. Soon?’

  ‘Claro que sí. Anyway, you’ve some reading to do, no? Guzmán’s diary.’

  ‘That will have to do for now.’

  The drive across Madrid was slow and hot. The university was quiet, with only a few torpid students still sprawling on the grass. Tali parked alongside Galindez’s car. ‘I wanted you to see,’ Tali said, ‘how what Guzmán and his men did still affects so many people. Including me.’

  ‘I’m glad you shared it with me,’ Galindez said, wondering if she would be able to share her own extensive history of pain some day.

  She leaned forward and their foreheads collided. They pulled back in surprise, amused at their mutual awkwardness. Shared laughter. And then Galindez felt the warmth of Tali pressed against her, lost in a moment with no space or time outside their confined passion. Finally, Galindez climbed from the car, smoothing her tousled hair, waving as Tali drove away into the warm dusk. Galindez slid into her own car, flicking on the light to check her appearance. She struggled unsuccessfully to calm her wayward fringe. She abandoned her hair and started the engine. What the hell, it was night. No one would see it.

  She was wrong. Luisa turned away from the small grassy slope overlooking the parking lot from where she had been watching them and slowly made her way back to the Contemporary History building.

  MADRID 2009, CALLE DE LOS CUCHILLEROS

  Gentle patterns of sunlight danced across the room. Galindez struggled to sit up. Her right arm still ached from Sancho’s punch and the memory of the fight sparked an adrenalin rush that put an end to her soporific reverie. Awake now, she replayed the fight against Sancho in her head. He was really good, she realised grudgingly. Better than her. She needed more time in the dojo to prepare for the next time they met. There is no problem that can’t be solved through application. She’d let her application slip of late.

  She was too preoccupied to sleep. Guzmán, of course. It was such a fascinating case. The more so since Luisa seemed hell-bent on arguing that he wasn’t responsible for what had happened. Galindez found that strange, though she relished the challenge of proving Luisa wrong. Preparing her coffee, she smiled. Things were going well. The Guzmán investigation was what she’d trained for: amassing evidence, interrogating complexities of background and context before drawing the threads together – a stark contrast to Luisa’s literary inventions and projections. Passing the mirror, she paused, seeing the smiling woman looking back at her. It had been a long time since she had been this happy.

  MADRID 2009, PLAZA MAYOR

  A golden day with soft clouds shielding the sun. Crowds bustled along the sides of the square, browsing menus outside restaurants, filtering in and out of bars and cafés, taking a beer here, tapas or a fino there and then more tapas. Galindez sat with Natali
a in the square, a glass of cold white wine glistening in front of her. Tali nursed a brandy with a shot of anise.

  ‘You really like that? I don’t see you as a sol y sombra type,’ Galindez said.

  ‘After all that emotion in the cemetery last week I felt like something strong.’

  The square bustled with teams of Japanese tourists taking turns to photograph one another in front of the statue of Felipe Tres. Voices echoed along the shaded walkway lined with bars and restaurants around the edge of the square No need to talk. Just sitting back, listening, watching people go by, hearing the murmur of traffic in the distance. The liquid sound of a saxophone spilled from an open window, a sudden rush of silvery notes shimmering in the bright air before falling in an intoxicated cadence into silence.

  The air grew rich with the drifting scent of cooking: smoke rising from heating oil, iron-hard notes of garlic, the seductive aromas of fried meat and grilled fish punctuated by herbs, blurred by the blue smoke of cigarettes. Cool almond milk splashing into glasses, waiters carrying cold pitchers of golden beer frosted with condensation. Restaurant windows bright with sleek rainbows of salad, crisp greens, bright peppers mixed with pungent chunks of onion, glossy with oil.

  Tali leaned forward. ‘Ana, when we were in the cemetery, you said something. Can I ask you about it?’

  ‘Of course. What did I say?’

  Tali finished off her sol y sombra and beckoned to the waiter. ‘Well, when you started crying, you said…’ She paused as the waiter arrived. Galindez asked for water, another sol y sombra for Tali. She turned back to Galindez. ‘You said “papá”. I just wondered what it was that upset you so much. I didn’t like to ask at the time.’