What Happened When the War Was Over; further stories of Gonzalo Llorente and Carlos Tejada Alonso y Leon

by Rebecca Pawel

  “Did your mothers work?” Roberto challenged finally.

  There was an embarrassed pause. “No.”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Rita snapped. “At the base. That’s why I was able to go to school there. So say that’s not a good thing!”

  Roberto gulped, unwilling to speak ill of a friend’s mother, even if - as in this instance - the friend had obviously lost her mind.

  “My grandmother works,” El Chino offered into the silence. “Part time. I don’t think she did when my father was a kid though,” he added hastily, seeing Roberto’s glare at this fresh betrayal.

  “Because she couldn’t!” Nina swooped back onto the attack. “None of our mothers could. That’s the point of the book....”

  “Speaking of the book, shouldn’t this discussion be in English?”

  “Fuck you, Zorro.” To Carlito’s inexpressible joy, Rita absent-mindedly shifted her weight, so that she was half-leaning against him as she spoke.

  A rhythmic thumping on the door finally made itself heard above the music and the debate. Ramona pushed herself to her feet, and stubbed out her cigarette. “I’ll get it,” she said. “Probably the guy downstairs, complaining about the noise again. We’ll have to turn off the record, kids.

  *****

  The captain and his wife ended up watching a ridiculous costume drama, poorly dubbed into Spanish. “This is pretty terrible,” Elena commented, after about twenty minutes.

  “Unwatchably bad,” her husband agreed, without stirring. “Do you want to turn it off?”

  Elena shrugged. It had been a long day, and the sofa was comfortable. “At the commercial,” she suggested, leaning forward to spear an olive from the little plate on the coffee table. He nodded, and they relapsed into a companionable silence, except for the occasional exclamation of disgust or disbelief brought forth by the movie.

  “Do you want coffee?” Tejada asked, an hour later, when the plates were empty.

  “I wouldn’t mind it. Do you?”

  “Sure. Stay there, I’ll get it.” The captain rose, and headed for the kitchen. Freed from the slightly hypnotic influence of the television screen he listened to the movie music swell, and shook his head, smiling slightly. It really was a terrible film.

  “You’re missing the burning of Atlanta, dear,” his wife called, as he dumped the last spoonful of coffee into the filter.

  “Would I be impressed?”

  “Probably not,” her laughter floated back to him over the artificial neighing of horses.

  The kettle whistled, just as the sounds of the movie died away into the modern music of a commercial. Tejada began to pour the boiling water, carefully keeping the filter filled to the brim, a ritual made automatic by years of experience. The noise from the television changed suddenly. No longer the fast, slick music of a commercial, or the slower, familiar theme of the movie. A man’s voice was speaking, with the bumpy, ill-timed sound of a live broadcast.

  “Carlos! Come here, please,” his wife’s voice was so quiet that the sound of the television almost drowned it out. He put down the kettle so fast that he almost scalded himself.

  “What?” he headed for the living room, driven by the urgency in Elena’s voice. “What is it?”

  Wordlessly, she gestured to the set. A map of Spain filled the picture, with a small photograph of a man in the upper corner, and a red circle on the right hand side, marked “Valencia.” The man’s voice continued speaking, disconnected and breathy, and Tejada realized that the photograph was of a journalist, speaking live over the telephone. “...tell us something about the mood in Valencia?....The streets are quiet here tonight, since Captain General Milans del Bosch declared a state of emergency an hour ago....there are tanks on the streets, and our cameraman’s equipment was taken from him...”

  Tejada sat down hard. Elena was shivering uncontrollably. He absently put one arm around her, as the map on the screen disappeared, and a newscaster’s vaguely familiar voice said. “Rebels still control TVE’s main headquarters in Madrid. Once again, the last live recordings we have of the Congress comes from around 6:30 this evening when radio transmissions were cut off....” A still photo filled the screen; the familiar background of the Congress, filled with deputies, the Prime Minister in his seat, and in the midst of the picture, incongruous but almost easy to overlook, a man in a tricorn hat, holding a pistol, his upraised arm frozen in a gesture. The captain’s mouth went dry as he recognized the uniform of the Guardia Civil. The radio announcer’s voice moved from boredom to puzzlement to subdued alarm as the tape ran; “there appears to be some noise in the corridor…and now a guardia civil is entering, and taking the podium…a lieutenant colonel in the guardia civil…he’s pointing a pistol…” The measured tones of the radio announcer were being drowned out by incoherent shouts. Then there was a harsh, authoritative yell. ““Everybody hit the floor!” Tejada tensed as he recognized the sound of gunfire. He stared at the screen, willing it to produce images, and wondering who or what the pistol shots had been aimed at. The photo was still stubbornly uninformative, as pandemonium reigned on the soundtrack. “Hit the floor! Hit the floor!...Sit the fuck down!” And then, out of the chaos of shouts, a voice speaking close to the microphone, “Turn that camera off. I don’t want any pictures.” And the frantic response. “Please, sir, calm down. Calm down, sir. It isn’t recording. It’s turned off, not recording..” Again, the sound of gunshots.

  The screen went blank, as a voiceover said. “We have identified the leader of the coup as Lieutenant Colonel Tejero of the Guardia Civil. Colonel Tejero has announced his intention of forming a government of National Salvation....”

  The captain was distracted by a little moan beside him. He put both arms around his wife. “Elena, sweetheart, it’s all right. It’s all right. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. It’s all right.” He murmured the words rapidly, automatically, still trying to comprehend what he had seen. It’s just that it’s on television, he thought. That’s what’s weird. That we can see everything right as it happens. That we could have seen it at the actual moment. She wouldn’t be this upset if we’d read the papers tomorrow… “Don’t worry, love. There’s nothing to worry about. It will all be fine.”

  She pulled away. “Did you know about this?” her voice was low, and steady. He knew that the survival of a forty-year marriage depended on his answer.

  “No!”

  She gave a little sigh of relief. “What will you do now, then?”

  For a moment, the captain was relieved that she had believed him. Then he realized that she had not said “what will we do,” and he knew that his answer had not been enough. I’m retired, he thought, with a kind of despairing anger. And then, as anger gave way to weariness. I’m too old for this. He looked around the living room: the shabby armchair he had insisted on dragging along to every place they had lived in the last twenty-five years, even though it did not go with the newer furniture; the stereo in the corner that Carlito had helped him shop for last year; the leather bound volumes of Homer that his father-in-law had given him for a wedding present, sitting below a framed finger-painting Anita had given them in kindergarten. Every available corner suddenly seemed crammed with knick-knacks, gadgets, and family photographs. He liked the room. “In the morning,” he said slowly. “I’ll call Juan Hernández. And tell him that I want to go to Geneva. And that you want to come with me.”

  The weight of misery in his voice pulled Elena back from her own nightmares. “What about the kids?” she was surprised by how calm her own voice was.

  “The Ministry will fly us to Geneva, I imagine,” the captain spoke quietly, relieved that they were once more discussing joint plans. “If we drop the car off with Pilar and Ricardo tomorrow morning they can be in France by dinner time.”

  Elena nodded, satisfied, wishing that she had thought to refill the tank the last time she had driven, but glad that Carlos had at least considered what to do about their daughter
’s family. Fortunately, their son and daughter-in-law owned a car. “Nothing’s likely to happen before tomorrow,” the captain added without conviction, and Elena shuddered slightly as she realized that he too had been shocked by the speed and immediacy of events.

  The television began to play the same film clip over again, and Elena rose abruptly and headed for the kitchen. “Coffee,” she spoke a little jerkily. “I’ll get the coffee.”

  Tejada nodded, and followed her, aware that he should stay by the television set in case of more news, but unwilling to let her out of his sight. Elena’s hands were shaking as she poured, and a little of the hot liquid spilled onto the counter. “Oh, shit,” Tejada reached for a paper towel, and began to sop up the mess. It spread along the counter, gently staining the edge of the postcard that his wife had left tucked between the canisters. He pulled the card free, and placed it out of harm’s way.

  “At least Alejandra’s out of it this time,” Elena tried hard to keep her voice normal, but could not quite suppress a quaver. She was sorry that she had spoken at all when she saw her husband’s face.

  “She was just Anita’s age,” Tejada barely spoke above a whisper. “When...we met. I....if anything happened to Anita.....”

  Elena put her arms around her husband, knowing that this particular terror was new for him. “God doesn’t take hostages for reprisals,” she murmured. “Only they do that.” He nodded against her shoulder, unconvinced.

  After a little while, they took their coffee cups back into the living room, and sat down, glued to the television, as incomplete and contradictory reports flitted across the screen. The Captain General of Madrid had confirmed his loyalty to the government. He was the only division commander who had done so. He was one of three divisional commanders. The rebellion was in the name of the King. The King had known nothing of the uprising. Tejero’s government of National Salvation had the support of the UCD. The leadership of the UCD was utterly surprised by the coup. TVE’s channels remained meaningless blurs of static and snow, although the private stations reported that a mobile crew was working feverishly to set up new broadcasting equipment.

  The captain began to relax under the barrage of information. Things aren’t really happening faster, he thought. It’s just the press have to report them faster. But they aren’t happening any faster. Time enough to see what will happen in the morning. He realized that his wife had relaxed also when, as the radio clip of the invasion of the Congress was shown yet again, she turned to him and said. “Can you recognize any of the voices?”

  Tejada shook his head. “It’s hard with a recording like this. But I doubt I know any of them, apart from Tejero. They’re probably all too young.”

  “Too young to remember the war,” she murmured, and he nodded, relieved, because surely sensible adults remembered, and would not do anything so foolhardy. And then he realized that his son was a sensible adult who did not remember the war.

  Another hour passed. Another cup of coffee. Another set of excited reports, no more reliable than the last. But still there was no crisis. The deputies were still alive in the Congress, and only Valencia was in a state of emergency. If we can make it through the night... Tejada thought, and began to think that this was possible, and even likely.

  Eighteen minutes past midnight, the phone rang. Tejada started, and exchanged glances with his wife, their fragile serenity destroyed. Two rings. Three. “Should I answer it?” Elena’s voice was quiet.

  He nodded.

  Four rings. “What will you say if it’s someone from the Ministry?”

  Five rings. Six. Forty years, the captain thought confusedly. My wife. My family. The kids will side with her, they always do. They can’t take away forty years of my life. Seven rings. Eight. Elena rose, and moved slowly towards the telephone. “That I voted for Suárez,” he said, as her hand closed on the receiver. “And that I won’t commit treason.”

  *****

  The uproar in Juana’s apartment made the previous debate seem somnolent. “This is it,” Nina’s face was pale and intense. “They’re trying to take us back to what it was like before!”

  “We can’t let them!” that was Roberto. “We’ll hold a rally, tomorrow morning! If we do the flyers tonight we can hand them out at school first thing, and in the street. Ramona, you know people at the University, you can help there?”

  “Sure. But I don’t have a photocopier.”

  “By hand, then,” Roberto suggested, too carried away to consider the logistics of this proposal. “And word of mouth. We can start telephoning now.”

  “Fuck leaflets,” Rita’s face was flushed. “They’re armed. We have to be ready for armed struggle!”

  “How?” demanded El Chino, eyes glowing. He had been privately wondering exactly how effective demonstrations would be against armed guardias civiles, possibly backed up by the regular army, and Rita’s pronouncement came as something of a relief.

  “In my grandmother’s village the people broke open the armory, and took whatever weapons they could find,” Rita spoke excitedly. “And then they disarmed the guardias, whenever they found them. And held off the fascists for two whole years.”

  Ramona headed for the telephone. “There’s a guy at school who’s a Communist. I’m going to call him, and ask what we should be doing.” She dialed rapidly and then shouted, over the din of her sister’s friends. “Hey, Nuri, it’s Mona. Listen, do you have Manuel’s number?...Well, yes, of course I’ve heard the news, why the fuck do you think I want it?...Yeah...yeah, thanks.”

  “We’ll beat them this time,” El Zorro’s voice was confident. “We just have to get the word out, so that all of us unite...”

  “The army won’t back them,” that was Juana. “Not the conscripts. Hell, do you think Juan and Jorge would?”

  In the background Ramona was speaking again. “Hi, Manuel, listen it’s Ramona...Ramona Vega...Fine, look, a bunch us here are wondering what to do if this thing gets out of hand. How can we help?...No, the boys aren’t old enough for service yet, they’re free agents...No, you pig, they’re friends of my kid sister...Sure, old enough...just finishing up their bac.”

  “They’ll want to join us,” El Zorro agreed. “The only question is if they’re afraid of their commanding officers.”

  “They have guns,” Rita’s voice was frustrated. “How could they be afraid? If it’s something so important?”

  “Maybe they’ll be afraid of reprisals against their families,” El Zorro suggested gravely, with unexpected maturity.

  “For something like this you have to think about more than just your family,” Roberto interjected, contemptuous.

  Carlito shifted uncomfortably. His parents approved of the Transition, of course. They would never support an armed coup. Even his grandparents believed in stability. Even his grandfather didn’t think the Guardia should interfere like this. Probably. Maybe. Of course something like this was bigger than one’s family. But...

  “...and build barricades if we have to,” Nina was saying. Roberto nodded agreement, their previous dispute forgotten.

  Ramona hung up the phone, and it shrilled again, almost immediately. “Hello?...Oh, hi, Mom...Yeah, the downstairs neighbor came and told me it was on the radio...Yeah, Juana’s here...Uh-huh...Okay...Okay, I can deal with it....yeah...bye.” She turned to her sister. “Mom says you should stay over tonight, in case they get out tanks here too.” She turned to her other guests. “You guys want to crash here, also?”

  Before anyone could answer the phone rang again. Ramona rolled her eyes, and picked it up. “Hello?...Who?...Hold on, I’ll check.” She turned back to the group, focusing on El Zorro and El Chino. “Which of you is JoseMari? Your mother’s on the phone.”

  Red-faced, El Zorro grabbed the receiver, and mumbled into it. He hung up with relief. “My mother says I can stay here tonight too, if you don’t mind, Ramona.”

  “Sure,” the girl nodded. “Anyone else? You should probably call home if you’re planning on stay
ing.”

  While Roberto and El Chino exchanged nervous looks, Rita headed for the telephone. Her conversation was long, and increasingly agitated. When she hung up, she sounded near tears. “My parents say I have to come home, right away.”

  El Zorro looked alarmed. “Did you tell them about the risks on the street?”

  Rita nodded. “Yes. They said if I left right away I’d be back before anyone from the barracks could reach this neighborhood.” Her earlier militant mood seemed to have been swept away. “I...I have to go now. I’m sorry.”

  For a moment, Rita’s miserable embarrassment seemed to infect the entire group. The boys glared at their feet, wishing that they were a year older, so that they had the chance to be in the military, and heroically swing their comrades to declare in favor of democracy. The girls exchanged glances, thinking that everything always seemed to be happening just out of their reach. They had been too young in 1975, and too far away from Chile, and now, when they were adults (or nearly) and everything was happening under their noses, they were still helpless. Rita silently began wrestling into her coat, and not even Roberto had the courage to tell her that something like a coup was bigger than mere family loyalties.

  The sight of Rita - Rita who could curse with the best of them, and who quoted Beauvoir and Marx and was never shocked by anything - slinking home at her parents’ command wrung El Chino’s heart. He stood up, suddenly. “I’ll go with you, if you like.”

  Everyone, Rita included, turned to stare at him. He flushed, but forced himself to add. “My parents probably wouldn’t like it if I stayed over either. I’ll take you home, and then...” he paused, wondering with a little flash of fear if going home might mean more than simply missing the camaraderie of the club.