She knew that even if everyone forgot her, he wouldn’t. Ever. And she clung desperately to that idea.
15
Mérida, January 1942
The soldier had never seen a barbershop like that one. It was small and elegant; on the walls were glass shelves crammed with colognes, makeup, and creams. The rotating armchairs were red and had a headrest for washing hair.
The barber was a trained professional. A short, gaunt man with little hair and a thin mustache, he had learned his trade in Paris, and he used to say, smugly, that in Europe cutting hair was a true art filled with preambles. He worked with a white coat on, and from the top pocket stuck out a comb and the handle of a pair of scissors. He applied himself seriously and conscientiously, ignoring the pains in his wrist and the hairs that flew into his face like pointy bristles.
“On leave to visit your girlfriend?”
The young soldier smiled with a certain sadness. He didn’t have a girlfriend to visit, or family with whom to spend his leave. He didn’t even know anyone in Mérida. He had been transferred there a few days earlier for no apparent reason. At least they had given him the weekend to get to know the city. And that was more fun than keeping watch over an abandoned quarry.
“Do you like how it’s coming out?” the barber asked him. The sound of the shaving was rough and threatening, as if a yoke were plowing through a dry field very close to the green stalks. The precise gesture of collecting the foam on the knife blade was a hypnotic art that the barber practiced as few did.
The soldier was one of those people who liked to get lost in his thoughts in front of his image in the mirror. He examined his profile absently, as if for a second he didn’t recognize himself. He made a strange face, and then he stroked his chin, satisfied.
When he went out into the street, the soldier smiled. The haircut and shave relaxed his face, and the gentle to and fro of the breeze between the washing hung out in front of the buildings felt pleasant. He was happy, but not like a boy or someone celebrating something. His happiness was deliberate and unhurried, and he showed it calmly, merely singing softly as he walked. When he was a boy, people said he had a good voice, and that he did very good versions of the greats like Lucrezia Bori and Conchita Badía. He hummed a little popular ditty, “La Muslera,” perhaps hurting over a lost love.
El día que tú te cases,
Se harán dos cosas a un tiempo:
Primero tu boda,
Después mi entierro.*
Gradually, the fear of the first few days had evaporated, when he saw that no one asked him any questions about the dead woman in the quarry. It was as if it hadn’t happened. Yet that apparent calm made him uneasy. He couldn’t get the intelligence officer out of his head; at night he awoke frightened, afraid of finding him by his folding bed. But apart from his dreams, that sinister character had also vanished.
On a corner, an itinerant musician wearing an Italian army jacket played the guitar and sang a song in his language. It was an evocative melody, with a calm pace. The soldier stopped for a moment to listen to it. Then he continued his stroll toward the riverbank. By the boggy curves of the river rested some vagabonds, people fleeing from hunger, mostly peasants who had given up farming and were headed to the cities. They formed part of a flood as powerful as it was sterile; tired and dusty, they were busting open garbage bags in search of rotten food.
Near the station he came across a large standing crowd. At the bus stop packed with people, bags, and suitcases, some children escaped their parents, whose shouts mingled with the cries and other hollering, creating a dizzying cacophony. Suddenly, the soldier found himself dragged by that tide. He lifted his head above the crowd toward the start of that mass that moved slowly forward, channeled through an aisle of fences that ended in front of a desk, where two civil guards discriminatorily checked documents and luggage. When his turn came he showed his military identification. The members of the civil guard were unmistakable in their three-pointed hats with protective flap and visor wrapped in oilcloth. They stood side by side, in their capes, with some strange sort of displaced hump that was merely their satchels.
They observed the soldier with reluctance. One of them had a lustrous mustache that filled his entire upper lip, and his hat strap shone beneath his chin. When he spoke he released thick steam. He carefully examined the identification, comparing the photograph on the document with the young man’s face.
“Is everything in order?” asked the soldier.
“No. It’s not,” said the officer, making a gesture for his colleague to come over. “This is him,” he pointed. “Put the cuffs on him.”
Before the soldier could understand what was going on, the guards threw him to the ground and cuffed him, dragging him inside the bus station. They stuck him in a small room and took off his handcuffs.
“Take off your clothes,” one of them ordered.
The soldier tried to explain to them that he was on leave, and that he was stationed at the artillery barracks in Mérida. But that agent with the rough face shook his head and lay down his concise sentence.
“There is no mistake. You are Pedro Recasens, with an order for capture for desertion. They’re going to cut off your balls, young man.”
The soldier couldn’t believe his ears. That was a huge mistake. They only had to call the command headquarters to prove that what he was saying was true.
“I’m telling you that I was just transferred and I’m on leave for the weekend.”
His protests stopped when one of the guards gave him a backhanded slap on the mouth. Drops of blood sprang to his lip.
“I told you to take off your clothes.” They shoved and shouted at him; they shook him like a muscle without bone, and he let them, head lowered and trembling. They searched him again with exasperating meticulousness. They went into his underwear, his pants, his shoes.
Time and time again they asked him the same things, without listening or caring about the answers he gave. That was a macabre and well-rehearsed dance. Naked in front of strangers, blinded by the weak light of a desk lamp. There was nothing sadder. He modestly covered his genitals and looked away, ashamed. For a few minutes the guards observed him, deliberating among themselves. They repeated the questions: What’s your name? Where are you from? Why did you desert?… Recasens denied the charge to the point of the absurd, to the point of nausea.
Finally, as if suddenly they had tired of that game, they stopped asking questions. They threw his clothes to him and made him dress. Recasens thought that finally they were going to let him leave, but he was wrong. They had him sit in a chair, and they left him there without offering any explanation.
A few minutes later the door opened again, and a man in plainclothes came in. The newcomer lit a filterless Ideales cigarette that he pulled from a wrinkled pack, and looked at Recasens with a frank smile.
“My name is Publio, and I’ve come to help you.”
“I haven’t done anything. They say I’m a deserter, but it’s not true. I have permission from my commanding officer.”
Publio took a drag on the cigarette, squinting his eyes.
“I know. Your commander owes us some favors, and I asked him to give you two days’ leave.” He pulled out a document and showed it to Recasens. “This permission.”
“Then this is all cleared up,” said Recasens with slight hope.
“This permission is worth nothing, Pedro. It’s fake. In the eyes of the law, you ran away from your barracks two days ago. I’ve done my research on you. I know that you fought against us at Ebro. With your background, imagine what will happen to you.”
Pedro Recasens went white. He understood that the man had set a trap for him, but he didn’t understand why.
Publio leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He looked at Recasens with pity. Deep down, he felt bad for the poor wretch.
“Are you religious?”
Pedro Recasens didn’t understand the question. He said yes, because he though
t that was what he had to say.
“That’s good. Where I’m sending you, you’re going to need strong faith. Although the Russians don’t like Catholics much.”
“The Russians?” asked the soldier incredulously.
The man nodded.
“I’m going to send you to the Soviet front, this very week. Unless you do something for me.”
The soldier swore up and down that he was willing to do whatever was necessary to be left alone.
“That’s good, cooperation. Come with me.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
* * *
Beyond the Aqueduct of Milagros extended the meadow with its fields of grains, vineyards, and olive groves. Herds of pigs and flocks of sheep blocked the roads that went up in a gradual ascent, curve after curve, toward the hillock. From the top a lovely view of the city could be seen. A network of cisterns and sewers, of baths and hot springs ran along the entire colony of Emerita from the swamps of Proserpina. To the north you could make out the basilica of Santa Eulalia. Bordering the city, the Guadiana extended like a bright ribbon crossed by several bridges.
As he drove his car, Publio kept his gaze firmly on the olive groves that extended from the other bank. His face dissolved into the river’s calm course. The soldier looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but he barely dared to breathe. They continued up the mountainside until they ended up on a straight gravel path, escorted on both sides by tall cypress trees that rocked meekly. Soon the magnificent Mola estate came into view.
The house was a hotbed of staff working silently and efficiently, like a brigade of ants with their heads lowered, packing up furniture, paintings, and books and loading them onto trucks with their canvas covers down. Most were prisoners condemned to hard labor. The only crime that many of them had committed was being on the side of the Republic when the war broke out. Every morning, at dawn, the guards brought them from the Badajoz jail, and they came back to pick them up when the sun was setting. They wore uniforms of shabby blue coveralls with a number sewn onto the sleeve and espadrilles covered with holes. Many had poorly healed scars on their faces, bruises on their legs and arms, and a saffron skin color from chronic diarrhea. They worked beneath the gaze of a fat prison guard who kept shouting insults at them.
Publio parked near the gate and had Recasens get out. They went into the estate and headed toward a somewhat isolated large lemon tree.
Sitting on the ground was a man who was no longer young, but still wasn’t old. He was shackled, and his face had been beaten. He was watched over from a slight distance by young soldiers who smoked as they sat in the shade of some sycamores with their shotguns leaning on the fence.
“Do you recognize this man?” Publio asked Recasens.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” the soldier answered without hesitation.
“Take a good look,” insisted Publio. And he tendentiously asked if that wasn’t the man he had seen with a woman the night he was keeping guard over the quarry.
The soldier didn’t need to take a closer look. No, that was not the man. He was sure. But judging by Publio’s look, he understood that his future depended on what he said. He swallowed hard.
“I can’t be certain,” he stuttered. “It was dark.”
Publio grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered threateningly that it wasn’t true; that morning it was sunny and clear, and Recasens saw that man come to the quarry with a woman, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Then he heard two shots and saw that man run into the car as fast as he could.
“I’m going to ask you again, for the last time, the same question: is this the man that killed Isabel Mola?”
Recasens sunk his eyes into the dusty ground.
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you confirm that in court?”
“Yes, sir, I will,” said the soldier in a tiny, barely audible, voice.
Then that man, whom he had never seen in his life, lifted his face, bruised from the blows, and examined him with the gaze of a dog who doesn’t understand why he’s being beaten.
Pedro Recasens would never forget that look, which accused him silently. But he wasn’t guilty of anything, he told himself. He was as much a victim as that poor defenseless guy. He was just a soldier who wanted to go home. The prisoner held his gaze, red with rage. Recasens felt some relief: rage is always better than shame.
“Fine. You can go,” ordered Publio, visibly satisfied.
Four days later, Publio transferred Marcelo to court.
Marcelo carefully examined the man who introduced himself as the presiding judge. Physically he looked like that type of person whose low standing was only redeemed by a certain success in his work, a sad Sunday afternoon phantom, who probably collected stamps. His physical appearance was unpleasant: too many pounds held up by short legs lacking muscle tone. A series of chins that increasingly resembled a goiter, an unexceptional hairless head, with ears excessively separated from his skull and a nose too small for so much cheek.
“Sit in that chair,” Publio ordered before retiring to the back of the room.
The judge paced around a few times, shuffling some papers distractedly. He had a red irritated area beneath his jaw.
“You don’t understand the situation, young man. The autopsy reveals that you viciously attacked Doña Isabel. Refusing to make a statement doesn’t make things easier for me.”
Marcelo closed his eyes. How many times were they going to ask him the same thing?
“I already said all I had to say when they arrested me. I did not kill Doña Isabel. I was very fond of her; she was a good person, and we got along well. I am not a madman or a murderer. They have me locked up here, and I can’t talk to anyone, for something I haven’t done. If they would let me speak with Don Guillermo, he will understand that they’ve made a mistake.”
“A witness named Pedro Recasens declared that he saw you leaving the place where Señora Mola’s body was found.”
Marcelo shifted his gaze to Publio. He imagined that the witness was the poor terrified soldier whom he’d seen at the Mola estate.
“Then that witness saw a ghost. I wasn’t there, not on that day or any other.”
The judge narrowed his eyes and looked at Marcelo briefly but with intense hatred.
“Why did you kill her?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“You lie,” snorted the judge, drying his lips with a handkerchief. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Publio, who was observing the interrogation with his arms crossed, as he leaned against the wall and said nothing.
“There are less friendly ways of getting a confession out of you,” declared the judge, turning toward the teacher.
Marcelo understood that the threat took on shape in Publio’s hieratic presence.
“I’ve already been shown that. I know your methods, and what you understand as justice. The justice of butchers.”
Publio approached Marcelo from behind, unhurriedly. Without saying a word he gave him a punch in the back of the neck. The vertebrae in the teacher’s neck crunched like paper wrinkling, and he fell to the floor.
The judge used a more conciliatory tone.
“Look, you killed Doña Isabel. I don’t know your motives, and I can’t conceive of someone deciding to do something so atrocious, but none of us can get inside your head to find out what happened to make you fly off the handle. Perhaps, if you explain it to me, we can find something to attenuate the facts. Who knows? Maybe we could ask for a life sentence instead of capital punishment. But for that to happen, you have to confess your guilt.”
Marcelo tried to stand up. The whole room was spinning. Publio helped him up, taking him by the arm and seating him in the chair again. His gaze, so serene and cheerful, was frightening.
“I already told you that I haven’t done anything,” stammered Marcelo, rubbing the nape of his neck.
The judge’s greasy face reddened with anger. He swallowed hard and punched th
e desk.
“Stupid,” he spat out. “If what you want is to take the hard road to this confession, so be it. Go right ahead.” He looked at Publio with determination and left the room with a slam of the door.
When Publio and Marcelo were left alone, the air became thicker and the room smaller. Publio took off his jacket and placed it carefully on the back of an empty chair. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and placed the suspenders on his forearm so as not to stain them.
“Does that hurt?” he asked Marcelo, pointing to his neck.
Marcelo didn’t answer.
“I didn’t want to hit you so hard, but you can’t show disrespect for a judge. They like to know that they’re the ones in charge and that others obey them.”
Marcelo looked at the ground, aware of what was going to happen to him, wondering if he was going to be able to stand it without breaking. But the minutes passed uneventfully. Publio just looked at him; he would even say he was looking at him kindly. At one point he came over and lit a cigarette.
“Who really knows these aristocratic fat cats?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. He weighed the matter for a moment, filling Marcelo with uncertainty. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
No. Marcelo didn’t understand.
“I’ll confess something to you. I never liked Isabel,” said Publio. This time his attitude was different. He seemed more relaxed. But Marcelo didn’t trust him. He guessed that now he’d invite him to have a coffee or a smoke to soften him. But he didn’t do that. Publio rested his forearms on the back of the chair and furrowed his brow.
“Women, especially beautiful women who are used to being in charge, are somewhat petulant. They feel that pressing need to be in control. Isabel was one of those. Many times I have seen how they snare, too similar to prostitution. You want something that they have: a look, for them to speak your name, for them to give you a key to reach what you are searching for. But a reward obtained without effort doesn’t excite their hunter’s instinct. In exchange for that promise, they want something from you: your body, your admiration, your submission. I have learned to play with those childish desires, to give and take without really handing over anything. Isabel taught me that. But you went into her game, you let yourself be seduced, and then, seeing that it was all just base amusement, you went crazy. You killed her in a fit of insanity. That’s what happened, and that is the confession you will sign.”
Victor del Arbol - The Sadness of the Samurai: A Novel Page 19