Winter in Madrid

by C. J. Sansom

  He laughed. ‘This isn’t a real dictatorship. It’s too chaotic for that. There’s lots of opportunities for business if you keep your wits about you. Not that I’ll stay here for ever.’

  ‘You might move on.’

  Sandy shrugged. ‘Next year perhaps.’

  ‘People here look as though they’re on the verge of starvation.’

  Sandy looked at Harry seriously. ‘The last two harvests have been disastrous because of drought. And half the infrastructure was wrecked in the war. Britain’s not helping, frankly. There’s hardly enough oil being allowed in to keep transport going. Have you seen those gasogene things?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The place is a bureaucratic nightmare, of course, but the market will win out. People like me are showing the way.’ He looked into Harry’s eyes. ‘That will help them, you know. I do want to help them.’

  The woman was staring at them again. Harry leaned across, whispering. ‘See her, at that table? She’s been looking at us ever since I arrived. I can’t help worrying she might be an informer.’

  Sandy looked blank for a moment, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. The other customers turned and stared at them.

  ‘Oh, Harry, Harry, you are priceless!’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s a tart, Harry. She’s always here, she’s looking for business.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You keep looking over, meeting her eyes and turning away again, the poor girl won’t know what’s going on.’ Sandy grinned at the woman. She didn’t understand his words but reddened at his mocking look.

  ‘All right, I didn’t know. She doesn’t look like a tart.’

  ‘A lot don’t now. She’s probably the widow of some Republican. A lot of them have gone on the game to make ends meet.’

  The woman got up. Fumbling with her handbag, she dropped some coins on the table and walked out. Sandy watched her go, still grinning at her embarrassment. ‘You do have to look out, though,’ Sandy continued. ‘I thought someone was following me recently.’

  ‘Were they?’

  ‘Not sure. They seem to have disappeared, anyway.’ Sandy looked at his watch. ‘Well, I must get back to the office. Let me get these.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Sandy laughed again, shook his head. ‘It is good to see you again.’ There was genuine affection in his voice. ‘Wait till I tell Barbara. Can I get you at the embassy about Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes. Ask for the translation section.’

  Out in the street Sandy shook Harry’s hand. He looked at him seriously. ‘England’s lost the war, you know. I was right – all the Rookwood ideas, empire and noblesse oblige and playing the game, it’s all nonsense. One knock and it’s all fallen down. People who create opportunities for themselves, who make themselves up, they’re the future.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, well.’ He sounded almost regretful.

  ‘It’s not over yet.’

  ‘Not quite yet. But almost.’ Sandy smiled commiseratingly, then turned and walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  THE DOORS OF THE Opera House stood open, light from the chandeliers shining out over Plaza Isabel II. The October evening was cold, and around the square civiles cradled their guns in the shadows. A red carpet trailed down the steps to the kerb in anticipation of the Generalísimo’s arrival. The bright lights made Barbara blink as she approached, her arm in Sandy’s.

  The evening before she had taken her deception of Sandy a stage further. She had savings in England and had written to her bank asking them to send her money to Spain. She had tried the Express office again too, asked them to send a telegram to Markby saying she needed to talk to him, but they didn’t know where he was.

  She waited in the salón for Sandy to come home. She had told Pilar to make up a fire and the room was cosy and welcoming, a bottle of his favourite whisky and a glass on a little table by his chair. She sat there reading, waiting, as she did most nights.

  He arrived at seven. Barbara had taken her glasses off when she heard his footsteps but she could see he was excited about something. He kissed her warmly.

  ‘Mmm. I do like that dress. Shows off your white skin. Listen, you’ll never guess who I met today in the Rocinante. Never in a million years. Is this Glenfiddich? Marvellous. You’ll never guess.’ He sounded like a schoolboy in his eagerness.

  ‘I won’t know if you don’t tell me.’

  ‘Harry Brett.’

  She was so astonished she had to sit down.

  Sandy nodded. ‘I couldn’t believe it myself. Walked in large as life. He’s an interpreter at the embassy. He was wounded at Dunkirk, then sent out here.’

  ‘Good God. Is he all right?’

  ‘Seems to be. His hand was shaking a little. But he’s the same old Harry. Formal, very serious. He doesn’t know what to make of Spain.’ He smiled and shook his head indulgently. Barbara looked at him. Harry. Bernie’s friend. She forced her face into a smile.

  ‘You were good friends at school, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a good chap.’

  ‘You know, he’s the only person from England you ever speak of with affection.’

  Sandy shrugged. ‘I’ve invited him round for Tuesday night. Sebastian’s bringing that awful Jenny with him, I’m afraid. Are you all right?’

  She had come out in a scarlet flush. ‘Yes, it was just a surprise.’ She swallowed.

  ‘I can put him off if you’d rather. If it brings things back. ’

  ‘No. No, it would be marvellous to see him.’

  ‘Well, I must go up and change.’ He left the room. Barbara closed her eyes, remembering those terrible days after Bernie went missing. Harry had helped her then, but it had been Sandy who had saved her. She felt ashamed again.

  THE HALL WAS nearly full, a buzz of excited chatter. Barbara looked round. Everyone was in their best clothes, even the numerous women in full mourning wore dresses of black silk and some had lacy mantillas hanging over their foreheads. The men were in evening dress or military or Falange uniforms. There was a sprinkling of clerics in black or red robes. Barbara had changed into a white evening dress with a green brooch that set off her eyes, and a white fur stole.

  The hall had been refurbished for its first performance since the Civil War. The walls and white fluted pillars were freshly painted, the seats covered with new red plush. Sandy was in his element, smiling at acquaintances. He nodded to a colonel as he passed with his wife. ‘They can put on a show when they want to,’ he whispered.

  ‘I suppose it’s a sign of things getting back to normal.’

  Sandy read from the programme. ‘“El concierto de Aranjuez. To celebrate Señor Rodrigo’s return from exile, his new work is a reflection on past glories amid the peaceful gardens of the Palace of Aranjuez.” We’ll have to drive down one weekend and see the palace, lovey.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  The hall was filling up. The orchestra was practising, shafts of music piercing the air. People glanced up at the empty royal box.

  ‘The Generalísimo’s not here yet,’ Sandy whispered.

  There was a flurry of activity as two soldiers led a couple in evening dress to their seats in a neighbouring box. Both were very tall, the woman statuesque with long blonde hair, the man with a bald head and an eagle-like nose. There was a swastika armband on his evening jacket. Barbara recognized his face from the newspapers. Von Stohrer, the German ambassador.

  Sandy nudged her arm. ‘Don’t stare, lovey.’

  ‘I hate seeing that – emblem.’

  ‘Spain’s neutral, lovey. Just ignore them. He took her arm and indicated a tall middle-aged woman in black sitting nearby, talking quietly to a female companion. ‘There’s the marquesa. Let’s go and introduce ourselves.’ He steered her down the aisle. ‘Don’t mention her husband, by the way,’ he whispered. ‘The peasants on one of his estates fed him to his pigs in ’36. Very nasty.’ Barbara shuddered slightly. He often spoke
lightly of the horrors people had suffered in the Civil War.

  Sandy bowed to the marquesa. Barbara wasn’t sure how to greet her so she curtsied, receiving a little smile in return. The marquesa was about fifty, with a kindly face that must once have been pretty but was now seamed into wrinkled sadness.

  ‘Your grace,’ Sandy began. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Alexander Forsyth. This is my wife, Señora Barbara. Forgive this intrusion, but Señor Cana told me you are seeking volunteers for your orphanage.’

  ‘Yes, he spoke to me. I understand you are a nurse, señora.’

  ‘I haven’t done any nursing for years, I’m afraid.’

  The marquesa smiled gravely. ‘Those skills are never forgotten. Many of the children in our orphanage are ill, or were injured in the war. So many orphans in Madrid.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘No parents or homes or schooling, some of them begging in the streets.’

  ‘Where is the orphanage, your grace?’

  ‘Near Atocha, in a building the church gave us. The nuns help with the teaching, but we need more medical help. The nursing orders have so many calls upon them still.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you think you could help us, señora?’

  Barbara thought of the barefoot wild-faced urchins she saw roaming the streets. ‘Yes. I’d like to.’

  The marquesa put a finger to her chin. ‘Forgive me asking, señora, but you are English. Are you a Catholic?’

  ‘No. No, I’m afraid not. I was baptized an Anglican.’ Barbara laughed awkwardly. Her parents had never gone to church. And what would the marquesa think if she knew she and Sandy weren’t even married?

  ‘The church authorities may need persuading. But we need nurses, Señora Forsyth. I can speak to the bishop, perhaps telephone you?’

  Sandy spread his hands. ‘We quite understand.’

  ‘I will see what can be done. It would be so good if you could help us.’ She inclined her head, indicating the interview was over. Barbara curtsied again and followed Sandy down the aisle.

  ‘She’ll do it,’ Sandy said. ‘The marquesa has got a lot of clout.’

  ‘I don’t see why my religion should be a problem. The Church of England’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  He rounded on her, suddenly angry. ‘You weren’t bloody brought up in the heart of it,’ he snapped. ‘You didn’t have to live with those hypocrites day in day out. At least with the Catholics, you know where you are.’

  She had forgotten the Church was such a raw nerve. Like mention of his family, it could make Sandy turn suddenly.

  ‘All right, all right. I’m sorry.’

  Sandy had turned away; he was looking at a tall balding man in a general’s uniform standing nearby. The soldier was staring back disapprovingly. He raised his eyebrows slightly and walked away. Sandy turned to Barbara, a trapped, angry look on his face.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he muttered. ‘Made me look a fool in front of Maestre. He heard.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who’s Maestre?’

  ‘An opponent of the Min of Mines project. It doesn’t matter. Sorry. Look, lovey, you know not to get me started on the Church, eh? Come on, they want us to sit down.’

  Flunkeys in eighteenth-century dress were moving through the crowd urging people to their seats. The hall was full now. Sandy led them to their row, near the middle, next to a man in Falange uniform. Barbara recognized him: Otero, one of Sandy’s business associates. He was some sort of mining engineer. He had a round clerkly face, but the olive eyes above the starched blue shirt were keen and hard. She didn’t like him.

  ‘Alberto.’ Sandy laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘Hola, amigo. Señora.’

  There was a susurrating murmur from the crowd. At the far end of the hall a door opened and a bevy of flunkeys bowed in a middle-aged couple. Barbara had heard that Franco was a small man but was surprised how tiny, even delicate, he looked. He wore a general’s uniform with a broad red sash round his paunchy middle. He held his arms stiffly at his sides, moving them back and forth as though leading a parade. His balding head gleamed under the lights. Doña Carmen, walking behind, was slightly taller than her husband, a tiara in her jet back hair. Her long haughty face was made for the regal expression it wore. There seemed something posed, though, about the stoniness of the Generalísimo’s face, the little mouth set hard under the wispy moustache, and the surprisingly large eyes staring ahead as he marched past the stage

  The Falangists in the audience sprang to their feet, stretching out their arms in the Fascist salute. ‘¡Jefe!’ they called out. The rest of the audience and the orchestra followed. Sandy nudged Barbara. She stared at him, she hadn’t expected to have to do this but he nodded urgently. She rose reluctantly and stood with arm extended although she could not bring herself to join the shouting. Making the gesture felt awful, shameful.

  ‘¡Je-fe! ¡Je-fe! ¡Fran-co! ¡Fran-co!’ The Generalísimo did not acknowledge the salutes, marching on like an automaton until he reached a door at the other end. The flunkeys opened it and the pair disappeared through. The shouts went on, people turning their heads and outstretched arms to the royal box as Franco and Doña Carmen reappeared above them. The couple stood a moment, looking down. Doña Carmen was smiling now but Franco’s face stayed coldly expressionless. He raised a hand briefly and at once the noise ceased. The crowd sat down. The conductor stood, bowing to the royal box.

  Barbara liked classical music. When she had lived at home, she had preferred it to the jazz her sister liked and would sometimes sit listening to concerts with her parents. She had never heard anything like this concerto but she liked it. The guitar began the allegro on a liquid flowing note and then the strings joined in, the tempo slowly rising. It was cheerful and gentle and around her Barbara saw people relax, smiling and nodding.

  The allegro moved to a climax and the adagio began. The music was slower now, the guitar alternating with wind instruments, and the sound was pure flowing sadness. All over the hall people began to weep, first one or two, then more and more, women and a few men too. She could hear half-suppressed sobs everywhere. Most of the people here would have lost someone in the Civil War. Barbara glanced at Sandy; he gave her a tense, embarrassed smile.

  She looked up at the royal box. Carmen Franco’s face was composed and still. The Generalísimo’s wore a slight frown. Then she noticed a quivering movement of the muscles round his mouth. She thought he was going to weep too but then his features settled again and she realized he had been stifling a yawn. She turned away, with a sudden, violent revulsion.

  The horn playing made Barbara think of a bare empty plain. She knew the man Luis was most likely a liar, but there was still a possibility Bernie was out there somewhere, imprisoned while she sat here. She clenched a fist tightly round her stole, fingers digging into the soft fur.

  The guitar notes quickened and then the violins took over, bringing the music to a wrenching climax. Barbara felt something break and well up inside her and then she was crying too, tears flowing down her cheeks. Sandy looked at her curiously, then took her hand and squeezed it diffidently.

  When the music ended there was a long moment of silence before the audience broke into thunderous applause. It went on as the blind composer Rodrigo was led to the front of the stage. Tear tracks glistened on his face too as he shook the conductor’s hand and spoke with the soloist, the clapping going on and on. Sandy turned to Barbara. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  He sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped earlier. But you should know how some things get me.’ She caught an undertone of irritation behind his reassurance.

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just – oh, everyone’s lost so much. Everyone.’

  ‘I know. Come on, dry your eyes. It’s the interval. D’you want to stay here? I’ll get you a brandy at the bar if you like.’

  ‘No, I’m all right. I’ll come.’ She glanced round and saw Otero looking at her curiously
. He caught her eye and smiled, quickly and insincerely.

  ‘Good girl,’ Sandy said. ‘Come on, then.’

  In the bar Sandy got her a gin and tonic. It was strong, she needed it. She felt her face flush as she drank. Otero joined them with his wife, who was surprisingly young and pretty.

  ‘Wasn’t it sad?’ she asked Barbara.

  ‘Yes. But very beautiful.’

  Otero straightened his tie. ‘A great composer. He must be very proud, his concierto played for the first time before the Generalísimo.’

  ‘Yes, did you see him?’ Otero’s wife asked Barbara eagerly. ‘I’ve always wanted to. Every inch the soldier.’

  Barbara smiled stiffly. ‘Yes.’ She caught a whisper from Otero to Sandy.

  ‘Any word on the latest Jews?’

  ‘Yes. They’ll do anything to escape being sent back to Vichy.’

  ‘Good. We need something more to show. I can make it look good.’ Otero noticed Barbara listening and gave her another of his sharp looks.

  ‘Well, Señora Forsyth,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Don Rodrigo will get to meet the Generalísimo?

  ‘I’m sure he will have loved the music,’ she replied neutrally.

  A man pushed through the crowd towards them. It was the general whose gaze had upset Sandy earlier. Otero’s mouth tightened and his sharp eyes flickered around but Sandy bowed and gave the soldier a friendly smile.

  ‘General Maestre.’

  The general stared coldly into his eyes. ‘Señor Forsyth. And my old friend Captain Otero – that is your Falange rank, I think.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Maestre nodded. ‘I hear your project is proceeding well. Building materials requisitioned here, chemicals there.’

  ‘We only ask for what we need, sir.’ There was a note of defiance in Otero’s voice. ‘The Generalísimo himself has—’

  ‘Approved. Yes, I know. A project to help Spain in its path back to prosperity. And make money for you, of course.’

  ‘I’m a businessman, sir,’ Sandy said with a smile.