Three Passports to Trouble

by Sean McLachlan

  A teenaged Moorish boy cut out of the tangle of lights and shadows of the fishing port to my left.

  “You looking hotel, mister?” he asked in bad English.

  “I live here.”

  “Restaurant?”

  “Just out for a stroll, imshi.”

  That means “get lost” in Arabic.

  “Why you saying me imshi? We friends. Hash? Kif?”

  “Don’t touch the stuff.”

  “Zigzag?”

  “I’m not the type and even if I was, you’re too young.”

  “Bah! You think I zigzag? No, I get you other boy. I no zigzag. I real man. I fuck whores every day.”

  He emphasized each of the last four words by smacking his fist against his palm.

  “If that’s your technique, no wonder you have to pay for it.”

  He cut in closer. “I get you anything you like. I the best—”

  I smacked his hand away from where it was trying to go into my pocket. Despite his sales pitch, it was the wallet he wanted to grab.

  “Beat it,” I snapped.

  He laughed and scampered off.

  El Restaurante Buenaventura Durruti was tucked back on Rue Antaki, a few steps away from the corniche. Its humble exterior gave nothing away, looking like just another whitewashed shop front. The door was closed despite the warm night and the lone window was stuck high enough up on the wall that you couldn’t look in.

  I opened the door and stepped back into 1936. Right inside the door hung a large black and red anarchist flag. The dim interior, lit only by a couple of weak bulbs and made dimmer by having one half of the ceiling painted black and the other a deep red, showed a medium-sized restaurant with plenty of private stalls for quiet conversation. Several of those stalls were full. All eyes swiveled to me. I pretended not to notice their interest and stood looking around for a second. Several photos of Durruti, Francisco Ferrer, Diego Abad de Santillán, and other anarchist leaders hung from the walls. The back wall had a banner from some long ago march. “Workers unite! Revolution today. They will not pass!”

  My heart sank. The workers hadn’t united, not enough, and the fascists passed right through us. The wide-eyed youngsters who had painted that banner had gotten their revolution that day, but only part of one, and one that did not last.

  I found a table. On the wall behind it hung a photo of Sacco and Vanzetti. The waiter came over and sat down. He was a lean man, my age but still fit. He looked like he belonged in a uniform, not a waiter’s apron.

  “What are we having?” he asked.

  “I don’t know about you, but I need some orujo.”

  I don’t generally like any of the local brands of firewater around the Mediterranean, but I had a few bruises to nurse.

  He came back with a bottle and two glasses.

  “I’m Màrius,” he said as he filled them.

  “Màrius who?”

  “How may I help?”

  “You know why I’m here?”

  “More or less. You are the little American detective searching for the murderer of Juan Cardona, no? Why are you still looking?”

  “Because the guy they have in jail didn’t do it.”

  That took him by surprise. He paused, took up his glass.

  “Viva la República,” he said.

  “Viva la República,” I replied, looking him in the eye.

  We drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smacked his lips. The orujo washed down my throat like acid. At least my bruises hurt a little less.

  “Why do you say the fascist did not do it?”

  “Because I met him. Too far gone with consumption to have managed it. He’s protecting someone. Any idea who?”

  He pondered this for a moment.

  “No. Juan did not have any enemies. He had few friends as well. He was a bit of a soft nothing, to tell the truth. A decent comrade, well educated in revolutionary theory, but he never did much. I think the war made him give up a little.”

  “It sure made me give up.”

  “You were in the Lincoln Brigade, no?”

  “That’s where I started. Later I joined POUM.”

  Màrius made a face. “Well, at least you fought the fascists.”

  “And now I’m fighting a murderer, someone who killed one of your comrades. I need some help. Anything you think might point the way.”

  Màrius gave a helpless gesture and poured us another round. I was acutely aware of the other tables listening in. Oh, they were still talking, but they weren’t listening to each other anymore.

  They were listening to us.

  “He worked here and there, never anywhere for long. It was hard to keep track. He kept himself to himself. No one knew him very well.”

  “I heard he drove a truck recently. Know anything about that?”

  “Yes, he did mention that. It was only one day’s work. Some rich man on the Mountain hired him and another man to make several runs from a farm to his house on the Mountain. Paid him well. Juan came in here to have a decent meal and celebrate. He never ate enough, but when his pockets were full, which was not often, he would treat himself.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Not much. Mentioned that the other man was German. I don’t think he said anything else.”

  “A young man,” said someone in a nearby booth. I could barely see him in the shadows, half blocked by his drinking companion. He did not make an effort to show himself to me. “Juan said he was a young man, too young to have been in the wars.”

  “Did he say anything else?” I asked.

  “No. He only mentioned this job in passing, to boast that he had money and was going to have a good evening. He bought a few drinks for some of the poorer comrades. He was a good man that way.”

  “The anarchists still sticking together, eh?”

  “Yes, we will always be united,” Màrius said, pouring us another round. I didn’t want any more but this wasn’t the sort of situation where you refused to drink with someone. I was amazed I was getting any information out of them at all. “And the communists today have broken into a hundred tiny little factions, all blaming one another for their problems.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m out.”

  “Yes, you mentioned you were out. I believe you mention that too much,” he said as he sipped his orujo. He did not sound convinced. It didn’t matter if I fooled this guy as long as I could keep fooling Gerald. “Did you see much action?”

  “I was a tanker. A gunner on a T-26. Knocked out a bunch of Panzers, plus those useless Italian tankettes Mussolini sent the fascists.”

  Màrius chuckled. “Yes, too bad Italy wasn’t our only enemy.”

  “You got that right, brother.”

  “Ah, it has always been this way. Even in the time of my grandfather, revolutionaries were surrounded by enemies. He was an anarchist too. Have you ever read about the revolutionary acts in Barcelona around the turn of the century?”

  “Not much.”

  His eyes shone.

  “Those were the real days of activism. Catalonia was under the iron fist of the capitalists, and the workers were not afraid of direct action.”

  “You mean all the bombs that were going off? Yeah, I read about that.”

  “The bosses and clergy were shaking in their shoes,” he said with a note of triumph. “They couldn’t even piss without worrying about getting blown up.”

  “Maybe you should have blown up their bathrooms.”

  He laughed. “We did. I do not know if you have them in America, but you have been to Europe. Do you know of the pissoir?”

  “You mean those toilets for guys in the streets? Very classy.” I’d seen them in Paris. Basically a little area with a metal wall from about knee height to chest height. You walk in and there’s a metal trough where you can do your business. Being partially exposed to all those high-style ladies walking by just a few feet away made it hard for me to get started, I tell you. I’m bashful by natu
re. Once I asked a gendarme why the walls were so skimpy, and he said it was to keep the queers from getting up to no good.

  Màrius was still speaking, so I tuned in.

  “Well, my American friend, Barcelona had many pissoirs. The city was modeled in many ways on the cities along the French coast. The pissoirs had hooks on the wall to one side of the trough so you could hang your umbrella or briefcase. Thieves took advantage of this, and we realized we could as well. We would load a bomb in a satchel, hang it inside, and leave. A few minutes later…boom!”

  “How is blowing up a bunch of guys taking a whiz going to defeat capitalism?”

  Màrius put a finger in the air. For a moment I thought he was going to shout “Eureka!”

  “We only planted them in the rich areas, to blow up the businessmen and bankers.”

  “Did that work?”

  Màrius slumped a little. “No. We blew up a few and then the bastards got rid of every pissoir in the city.”

  “So the workers ended up having to cross their legs and turn blue because you wanted to hurt a few peeing bankers. Yeah, a real successful revolutionary act.”

  “It was a tactical mistake,” Màrius conceded. “Others came up with better ideas. It was a time of individual action and individual creativity. There was this one man, I cannot recall his name although I should. A shining example of solitary revolution. He was a part time worker, very poor, and yet somehow he saved or stole enough to buy a nice suit and a pistol. He would get himself cleaned up and walk into a fine restaurant. He looked very high fashion and no one thought anything of it. Then he’d take a good look around the room, pick out the richest man, walk over to his table, and shoot him.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  “He got away with six, seven shootings this way. He’d shoot his man and run out before anyone could react. They finally caught him by luck. He shot a fat member of the stock exchange, ran out of the restaurant, and straight into the arms of a policeman who happened to be walking by.”

  “Ain’t that a crying shame.”

  “Sometimes success or failure depends on luck and not planning. I wish you luck in your hunt for the murderer. If you say this fascist did not do it, then he must be protecting a more important fascist. Perhaps he thinks he has not long to live and this will be the sacrifice that will get him into heaven. Find the real killer, comrade, and we will be grateful.”

  “How much do I owe you for the drinks?”

  “One peseta for yours. I drink for free.”

  I plunked down a coin but not a tip.

  I’d learned not to on my first day in Spain. I’d taken a boat from New York to Marseilles, and there I enlisted in a secret recruitment center set up by the International Brigades. Within a week I was sailing to Barcelona on an old tramp steamer. I’d never been south of New York in all my life and the brilliant Spanish sun nearly blinded me, that and all the red Communist banners fluttering in the breeze. Far more numerous were the red and black anarchist banners, but I didn’t care. We were all together fighting fascism. That was the important thing.

  I was an obvious foreigner and everyone rushed to greet me. Children gave the clenched fist salute, women pecked me on the cheek, and men shook my hand.

  A bunch of us volunteers found a cafe and sat down for some tapas and wine. It was an anarchist collective, the boss having fled and the waiters and cooks were now running it communally. We sat in the sun, about ten of us from five different countries, and boasted how we would smash the fascists. Spaniards gathered around to talk with us or just watch curiously.

  We ordered our snack, had enthusiastic conversations in broken Spanish, and generally had a great time. When we asked for the bill, the waiters said that they didn’t want to take pay from international volunteers. We tried to insist but they would have none of it. So we decided among ourselves to leave a fat tip instead.

  We got about halfway down the street before one of the waiters came running up to us, alongside a younger guy, who turned out to be a university student who spoke English and who had been passing by.

  “Did you leave this money as a tip?” the student asked.

  When we admitted that we had, he smiled, handed the money back, and said.

  “The waiters do not want it. You see, we are building a new society of equals here, and tips are part of the old bourgeois mentality. A tip is insulting to both the giver and the receiver. To give a tip means that you are putting the waiter below you. You are saying that he better act like a servant and respond to your every whim like an inferior, otherwise you will hold back the means of his existence. It is also insulting to the giver because it is cowardly. It shows the giver to be afraid to look the man who serves him in the eye and treat him as an equal. It sullies the giver by making him part of class exploitation.”

  So in my entire time in Spain, I never tipped anyone. I figured that rule still held here.

  Màrius gave me the clenched fist salute. “Good luck, comrade. If you need any help you can call on us.”

  I stood, not too steadily.

  “I might have reason to do just that.” I turned to the table to get my hat, remembered it had been ruined, and moved toward the door.

  A young man intercepted me. Too young to have seen anything of the Spanish revolution. He stuck a pamphlet in my hand. La Revolución Sindicalista en España.

  “Read this, comrade. You’ll learn the truth,” he said. He looked like a recent convert. Had that wide-eyed, childish look.

  Màrius grunted and called from the table. “Maybe it will push that Trotskyite bullshit out of your head.”

  I took the pamphlet, tucked it into my pocket to be thrown out later, and walked out the door.

  A German. A young German drove up the Mountain with Juan. The same young German that Bill Burroughs heard visiting Felipe? Why would the assistant (friend? something more?) of an old fascist hire an anarchist driver?

  That happened about a week ago, and after that Juan came in here flush and in a generous mood. But over at the Cafe Manara at about the same time, he had been distracted and preoccupied. Gaspar said he looked sick and had been clutching his side. The blow to the ribs the coroner had detected? Had that been before, or after the trip up the Mountain?

  And who beat me up? As much as I felt like human punching bag, I realized those guys had not planned to kill me. That boxer landed one in my stomach and not my throat. A strong punch to the windpipe can kill you, and he was plenty strong. And that kick to the ribs could have just as easily been to my neck. No, those guys had planned to rough me up and give me a warning.

  Problem was, I never got to hear the warning because Chason’s man showed up.

  Damn it, I might have learned something.

  As it was, I was stuck with more questions than answers, a head full of orujo, and a body covered in bruises.

  Time to call it a night. I figured the next day would be a long one.

  Oh, if I only knew.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My first mistake was getting out of bed in the morning. My head felt tight and my mouth tasted of bad booze and cotton wool. I kicked off the blankets, put my feet on the floor, and straight into a hairball.

  My cat’s named Hairball. That’s all you really need to know about him. That and the fact that I’m going to make cat stew for dinner someday.

  After washing my foot in the tub, I downed two aspirins and cooked myself up some bacon and eggs for breakfast, along with a large pot of black coffee.

  Hairball hid under the couch. Smart cat.

  The phone rang. Gerald.

  “How are you, old boy?”

  “Feeling older than usual.”

  “Yes, Officer Ramhani reported that he saved you from a mugging.”

  “It wasn’t a mugging; it was a warning. And Ramhani drove them off before I could hear what I was being warned about.”

  “Interesting. The officer mentioned they were all Spanish.”

  “I’m up to my ears in Spaniards
.”

  “Well this should be a welcome change of pace. I checked up on your hunch. We have a few feelers in rightwing circles. It turns out a young Falange member named Octavio Prieta was assisting Felipe. Doing his shopping, cooking his meals. That sort of thing. The man’s practically an invalid, you know.”

  “I heard Felipe’s friend was a German.”

  “He’s a war orphan, raised in Spain by a right-wing family.”

  That explained it. When things started going badly for the Third Reich, a lot of high-ranking Nazis placed their children with rich Spanish families. When the Third Reich fell, it fell hard, and a lot of those kids never got collected.

  “Big guy? Blonde? Speaks Spanish with a German accent?”

  “Yes to all three,” Gerald replied.

  “What’s his real name?” I asked.

  “Octavio Prieta, as far as we can tell. He came on a Spanish passport. Probably changed his name when he was naturalized.”

  “Or to hide something. I wonder what his original last name was. Have you questioned him?”

  “We did. He backed Felipe’s story to the letter. The man has made quite the fortress of self-denunciation around himself. It’s going to be difficult not to find him guilty.”

  “If Octavio grew up in Spain, why does he still have a German accent?”

  “We asked him that. He claimed to have never lost it, but after a bit of browbeating he admitted he had spent some time in West Germany after the war. ‘Searching for his family’ or so he said. He didn’t find them because he claimed he didn’t know his own real last name.”

  “That’s a load of horse pucky.”