The corporal checked the magazine of his rifle. Three bullets left. He removed one and gave it to the kid. Of the other men, only one still had a rifle. Another man had lost his weapon and his fear was so great he could not stand still, his feet moving in involuntary anticipation of further flight. The corporal went through the man’s pockets and found several bullets which he shared with the kid.
The ground rose ever more steeply ahead of them. It was clear they would soon find themselves trapped against the sheer slope of the hillside above them. This was as far as they could go. In their condition they could not climb the cliffs looming above. Now flight was no longer possible, they prepared for a final confrontation with the Moors. One of the men unwrapped a rolled-up groundsheet and brought out a tommy gun, its round magazine slick with oil. He had carried it all this way without using it, saving it until the time arrived when he could deploy it to its best advantage. He and the corporal had been regular soldiers and they now set out their battle plan. The kid was placed in bushes far over to the right. The corporal took up position in the centre, amongst scrub that would afford him cover until the Moors got near. The two others were placed on the left, the one without a weapon was now clutching the corporal’s bayonet.
The kid knew he would never be able to use it if the Moors got close. The tommy gunner crawled further into the deep coarse grasses and shrubs amongst the trees, seeking a suitable spot somewhere between the two men on the left and the corporal. The kid lay in the dry grass and waited. He placed two grenades in front of him. When he had fired the five bullets he now possessed, he would throw one of the grenades. The other he would use on himself. He had seen it done before: remove the pin and hold the deadly canister to the side of his head. Death might be inevitable, but at least he would cheat the Moors of the manner in which it was done.
There were shouts amongst the trees below them. And again he heard the harsh voices of the Moors calling ‘Guzmán’. Whoever Guzmán was, he was coming.
15
MADRID 2009, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE DEPARTAMENTO DE HISTORIA CONTEMPORÁNEA
Galindez strolled slowly towards the Faculty of Modern History. Buildings and trees rippled in the torrid, wavering air, shapes and colours merging in fluid patterns. The humidity was getting to her: she felt a headache coming on. The stone steps leading to the entrance reflected the remorseless heat against her bare legs. At the top of the steps she paused as a barb of sharp pain flickered behind her eyes. Bloody heat. It’s giving me a migraine. Thankfully, inside the building it was cool and quiet. A low murmur of distant voices. Luisa was sitting in her office by the open window, looking out over the sweltering campus. Hearing Galindez in the doorway, she turned.
‘Holá, Ana. Que calor, verdad?’
‘Yes, it’s murder. Thirty-three degrees today,’ Galindez said, settling into a chair.
‘And how’s your investigation going?’
‘Slowly. At the moment, I’m putting names from the diary into our database to match them with lists of people who went missing in the war. It’s very hit and miss: even if we can match the name, there’s often no surviving relative for me to get a DNA sample to confirm the identity. It’ll take a while: there are twenty-three sites identified in his diary.’
‘And you’re going to excavate all of them?’ Luisa’s smile was softly mocking. ‘I hope the guardia’s paying.’
‘Of course not. We don’t have the resources, though I may be able to get permission to open up one or two sites – we’ll see. I’m also going to do an examination of the remains from Las Peñas in a day or two when there’s a laboratory available.’
Luisa nodded. ‘So you’ve come up with very little, really, Ana María.’
‘Which is why I’m doing the tests on the skeletons,’ Galindez said, annoyed by Luisa’s patronising tone.
‘You must do as you see fit, Ana.’
Luisa was insufferably smug this morning, Galindez thought. ‘I expect you’ve made more progress, Luisa?’
‘Oh yes. What with the Freudian discourse analysis on the early diary entries and the intertextual exposition of the later material, we’ve built up a mass of narrative data. Later on, we’ll merge that with the stories of survivors, biographical accounts and so forth. Toni refers to it in his thesis as “revoicing”.’
‘I’m sure he does, Luisa. You’re his Ph.D. supervisor, after all.’
Luisa frowned. ‘Ana, why so hostile? You’ve a free hand here to do what you like for this report. You don’t get that in the guardia. Try to be a bit more amenable to the ideas of others.’
‘That cuts both ways. For example, if I write a forensic paper on Guzmán, will you include it in the report?’
Luisa cast a glance over Galindez’s legs. She pulled her chair closer. Uncomfortably close. ‘It’s an excellent idea,’ she said, ‘parallel narratives, separated by epistemological divergence. It’s nice having that kind of tension. Though my approach will be altogether more populist.’
‘Really?’ It was difficult for Galindez to imagine Luisa descending from the theoretical clouds long enough to be populist.
‘Definitely. I want to bring the experiences that shaped Guzmán to a wider public. Not just an academic audience, but Spain as a whole: Guzmán – My War Within. That’s the working title. An account of how a sensitive and talented young man ends up in charge of policing Franco’s defeated enemies. There’s a big market for work of this kind. People want to share those experiences in all their raw detail. I think I’ll be able to help them share what Guzmán suffered. Connect his suffering to Spanish society in general. Make connections.’
‘Oh come on, that’s just adding insult to injury,’ Galindez said. ‘At the very least, Guzmán was orchestrating people’s suffering – even if he didn’t actually harm anyone himself as you clearly believe. Portraying him as a victim is going to upset a lot of people, surely?’
‘You’re missing the point.’ Luisa smiled. ‘The Pact of Oblivion silenced so many voices in this country. Now, those voices are crying out to be heard. In fact, I’ve found that many people from families who supported Franco feel their experiences were silenced once democracy was established. I think there’s a big market – sorry, audience – among them as well. People don’t want to feel guilty for what their parents or grandparents did in the war. Nor should they. I can help them see how behaviour in the war can be explained in terms of the wider context. Let them know they needn’t feel guilty.’
‘Using textual analysis, of course?’
‘Correct, Ana María,’ Luisa said, as if Galindez had just answered a question in class.
Galindez was starting to understand Luisa’s plan: aim at volume sales rather than academic consumption. Break out from the confines of research work and start shifting books. Mierda, a memoir of misery, exploiting the suffering of the Civil War alongside a ludicrously sanitised portrait of Guzmán. Worse still, Luisa was providing a means for those who supported the dictatorship to reinvent themselves as victims. A fabrication, Galindez thought angrily, no scientific evidence at all.
She calmed herself, realising that while Luisa improvised her account of Guzmán’s secretive life, Galindez could continue with her own work, focusing not only on the bodies from the mine but also pursuing Guzmán’s involvement in the attempted coups in the seventies. Luisa didn’t yet know about the Centinelas material. She would find out about it later, Galindez decided. Much later.
‘The Guzmán report will be submitted to the European Union Education Commissioner you know,’ Luisa said. ‘As part of the bid we’re making for funding for the new Research Centre: The International Centre for Intertextual Historical Studies. The university is very excited about it, given that the funding amounts to several million euros.’
Now Galindez understood why Luisa was so pleased with herself. ‘Who’s going to be in charge of the centre, Luisa?’ She asked, already sure of the answer.
‘I’ve given tentative acceptance.’ Luisa beamed.
Galindez congratulated her half-heartedly.
‘You know, Ana,’ Luisa said, ‘I do miss you. I miss touching you.’ Her hand slid over Galindez’s knee. ‘Your skin fascinates me.’ Her hand moved higher, settling on her thigh.
Galindez’s first thought was to push her away. But it was suddenly impossible to think. A dark band of pain slid across her consciousness. Where her thoughts were clear and precise a moment ago, there was now a dull, painful fog. She tried to protest, but instead of words, she found herself frozen in submissive confusion, thoughts and words failing to align themselves in meaningful patterns. Luisa’s hand moved up her leg towards the hem of her skirt. Rigid, unable to form the words to stop her, Galindez found herself spectator to her own unwanted seduction.
‘I thought so,’ Luisa said. ‘You just wanted me to make the first move.’ Galindez struggled to speak. All she had to do was tell Luisa to stop, yet her voice was hesitant, stammering unsuccessful attempts at protest. Luisa placed her finger on Galindez’s lips. ‘I know what you want, Ana María.’ Her hand slid under her skirt and Galindez felt the enervating miasma grow as Luisa’s hand moved like a slow rising flame on her thigh, her finger tracing random, teasing patterns.
‘No.’ Galindez’s voice was slow and confused as she struggled to her feet, snatching up her bag as she staggered to the door.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Luisa said softly. ‘What’s the problem?’
Galindez couldn’t say, because she didn’t know, couldn’t explain. She had no language for this. She walked unsteadily from the room and down the corridor. Outside, the mental haze began to lift, the raw heat of the day suddenly seemed cleansing. But something was wrong, she thought. She leaned against the wall outside the faculty entrance, keeping in the shade. I forgot Belén’s email, then the episode in the comisaría and now this. What’s wrong with me? The trouble was, she knew. The doctors had said it might happen. For eighteen years, she’d believed it wouldn’t.
MADRID 2009, CALLE DE LA RIBERA DE CURTIDORES
Galindez and Tali strolled leisurely down the cobbled hill, window shopping and dawdling in the lazy afternoon heat. Shop blinds were tightly drawn against the glare. Outside the Bar Almeja, a few customers braved the fierce sun, lounging at tables crammed into a diminishing area of shadow. Further along, an African drummer beat out a low, tumbling rhythm, bouncing percussive echoes off the high walls around him.
At a stall a man was frying churros, pouring lines of batter into the deep hot fat until they were brown before covering them with sugar and salt. The smell of frying filled the warm afternoon air. Tali bought a paper cone full of steaming churros and bit into one with relish.
‘Quieres?’ She rattled the cone, showering sugar onto the pavement.
‘Not really. I eat less calories in a week than you’ve got in that bag,’ Galindez said.
‘They remind me of childhood. The taste makes me feel like a little kid again.’
Galindez felt a sudden sadness. I can’t remember what childhood tastes like. ‘Go on, then, just one.’ The churro was hot, salty and sweet. And very greasy.
‘Want some hot chocolate to dip them in?’ Tali asked. ‘Go the whole hog?’
‘I’m fine. You go ahead.’
Tali bought a plastic cup of thick warm chocolate and dipped a churro into it. After a moment Galindez followed her example. ‘The Galindez willpower at work,’ Tali laughed, wiping chocolate from her lips.
‘I know. I’m just a slave to my desires. Mira. Look over there. It’s a fortune-teller. You don’t see many of those. Let’s take a look.’
The dirty shop window was almost empty but for a shelf covered with a piece of ancient black velvet. In the middle of the velvet was a large glass ball. A handwritten card was propped against the ball:
Aurelia, Genuine Gypsy from Jerez – Fortunes told – Tarot and palm readings – Love potions – Husbands and Wives found – Luck restored
‘It’s all nonsense, isn’t it?’ Tali snatched the last churro.
‘Scientifically speaking, it is. To be honest, I’m intrigued by them.’
‘Really? Go in then, Ana. My treat.’ Tali opened the door. Inside, the shop was dark. It smelled of damp and dust. ‘Holá, señora,’ she said to someone inside. ‘How much for reading my friend’s palm?’
A cracked dry voice told her it was fifteen euros.
Tali stepped into the darkened shop and paid. ‘Venga, Ana María. In you go. I’ll wait by the churro stand.’
Inside, the small room was draped in dark cloth embroidered with the moon and stars in silver thread. It was cold after the heat outside. An old lantern gave off a strong smell of paraffin. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, Galindez saw an old woman dressed in black, sitting at a table. She smelled of smoke and roses. Outside, the faint drumming pulsed hypnotically.
‘Muy buenas, señora.’ Galindez could still taste churros on her lips.
‘Muy buenas, hija. Come nearer, princesa, I don’t bite.’ The old woman took Galindez’s hand in hers, her sharp nail tracing the lines on her palm.
‘Odd things are happening,’ Galindez said. ‘I want to know how they’ll turn out.’
The gypsy sighed. ‘We all want that, hija. A ver.’ She bent closer. ‘I see a man. Is there a man in your life, guapa?’ She saw Galindez’s amused surprise. ‘No? This man wants you. He knows you’re looking for him. He’s a writer, isn’t he? I see him sitting at a desk, writing in a book. The book you’re looking for.’
Suddenly, with a cry, the gypsy released Galindez’s hand as if it were red hot. She struggled to her feet, crossing herself. ‘Qué te vayas. Fuera. Por Dios. I can’t see any more. Go.’
‘Puta madre, you’re supposed to tell me I’ll meet someone nice, have six kids and live happily ever after,’ Galindez snapped. She was angry: she’d only come in for a bit of fun, not to be spooked by this old witch.
The old woman grabbed her arm. ‘Here, I can’t take this.’ She handed Galindez the money Tali had given her. ‘Now go, chica. And be careful.’
Galindez opened the door, glad to see bright sunlight again. And then, curious, she turned back. ‘Why can’t you tell my future, señora?’
The old gypsy sank back into the seat behind the table, her face lost in deep shadow. ‘You don’t have a future, chica. Dios mio, you only have the past.’
The door slammed behind as Galindez stepped back into the street. She heard the sound of the lock turning. Across the road, Tali waited in a pool of sunshine, listening to the African drummer. ‘Well, what did she say?’ She looked in surprise as Galindez handed her the money back.
‘It was rubbish. Joder, some fortune-teller she is – she nearly frightened me to death. Never again.’ Galindez plucked a five-euro note from Tali’s hand. ‘I think I need more churros.’
16
MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES
‘Mierda. There are bodies all over the city.’ Guzmán put down the telephone.
‘How many, jefe?’
‘Forty-five so far.’ Guzmán said, looking absently across the room.
‘Forty-five?’ Peralta was shocked. ‘This is a massacre.’
‘There’s certainly going to be trouble,’ Guzmán said, annoyed. He got up and walked to the door. Peralta followed him across the corridor into the mess room. Inside, twenty uniformed policemen were cleaning rifles, opening cases of ammunition and placing cartridges into rucksacks. The tables were strewn with the detritus of combat: bayonets, pistols, a pair of metal knuckledusters studded with long spikes. The men worked methodically, cheerful and boisterous, the promise of action invigorating them.
At the centre of the hubbub was the sarge, grinning as he packed a satchel with hand grenades. He saw Guzmán and saluted. Guzmán returned it by giving the sargento the finger. He then took out a packet of Ducados and lit one. Peralta looked longingly at the cigarettes and Guzmán absently passed him the packet, belatedly realising his mistake.
‘They sell them. You give them money, they give you cigarettes. It works every time.’ Guzmán’s words were punctuated by clouds of acrid smoke.
Peralta nodded. ‘Sorry, boss, I thought I had some.’ Guzmán sighed and turned away. Tapping the loose black tobacco back into the end of the cigarette, Peralta lit it, taking a deep drag until the tobacco burned evenly. As the coarse smoke hit his lungs, he coughed, thus failing to see Guzmán as he mouthed something to the sarge. The sarge guffawed and without warning tossed a hand grenade to Peralta. Alarmed, the teniente caught it, snatching it out of the air with two hands before gingerly placing it on the table.
‘Hope you put the pin back, Teniente,’ the sarge cackled. Peralta looked in horror at the green-grey ball of metal.
‘Very funny, Sargento.’ He tried to affect a more nonchalant air and failed. Throwing explosives around a crowded mess room was not his idea of entertainment, although from the smirks and sniggers, Peralta could see he was alone in thinking that. He returned to his cigarette, inhaling the smoke gratefully. Guzmán was looking at the table of weapons, lost in silent meditation. Peralta waited.
‘Ever think about what makes this country tick?’ Guzmán asked.
‘What it runs on, you mean? Like petrol? Oil? ’
Guzmán looked at him. ‘Power.’
‘Power? That’s what I said, jefe, petrol and oil—’
‘No. Power. As in the army, the navy, the air force, the police, the guardia civil. Franco. Us. Coño, can’t you see?’
‘Well yes, of course, I understand,’ Peralta said, not understanding.
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 36