23

In Murcia, in his office, Carl Vlanoc heard Stepanovich’s harsh voice grind over the phone. ‘A mistake, Vlanoc. After all these years.’

‘Even the Vozhd himself makes mistakes,’ Vlanoc said.

‘He has never made a mistake, never once in his life. You miscalculated with that romantic fool. Now he’s a renegade. We can’t afford mistakes.’ Stepanovich hung up.

No, Vlanoc said to himself, you’re wrong, there will be no mistakes. He had yesterday dispatched Red Struik and Heinz Brucker to Barcelona in a fast car. There had been something in Starr’s voice which hadn’t been quite right. K Vozhdyu. They would soon be there and would know what to do. And if they didn’t, Roegen would set them straight. But it would be his men, not the shiteater’s. Roegen and Step had been setting traps for him for a long time, now they thought they had him. Well, they still had much to learn about Carl Vlanoc. They thought they could depose him after all these years because he had allowed himself to be outwitted by a boy for whom he had a sentimental attachment. In his life he had given up much more than mere sentimental attachments—much more! When he had made his decision in ’28 after Lev had been exiled, he had made it for better or for worse. It had been his marriage, his life and his death. There was no turning back, the blood was too sticky. Chop chop went the iron angel and you lost your head. Remember, Eva, the plans we made for our new world? Like children playing at house. There would be dancing in the streets every evening, and potatoes would be pomegranates and all guns would be smelted into playgrounds. What rot. Why was he shaking? What was wrong with him? The man had broken discipline. To break discipline is to be a soft, a traitor. He would have to be mashed. The tiniest infraction—mashed. The iron angel ruled their lives. Tiny infractions, like cracks in a wall, become large ones—spread, lengthen, multiply: weaken the structure. Amorality becomes immorality. Immorality acknowledges the existence of morality. Morality gives birth to conscience. With conscience they would be like all others. No others could even contemplate the conquest of man, to remake him in their own image. Beasts kneeling in obeisance before an iron angel. The intellectual cream of Europe curdled before the blank eyes. Bowed to it. Even old revolutionists—men who had dared to attempt the transformation of men into gods, had conquered and found they had constructed—what? Now the old revolutionists didn’t want to die. Remaining alive was the only trinket worth the salt. If you’re a coward. He, Carl Vlanoc, was a coward. He had known it in ’28. He knew it now.

Vlanoc wrung his hands. They were burning, would soon catch fire like two sticks. He threw them heavily against the wall near the desk. Now they dropped loosely to his sides.

He reached for a bottle of whisky on the table near the open window, the Murcian sun an oven, his own sweat mingling with the putrid stink of the Segura in his nostrils.

Inwardly Roegen beamed. He made his office a few blocks beyond the Plaza de Cataluña in an obscure stone building, sparsely furnished, almost bare. Roegen neither sought nor required the trappings of opulence to advertize his power. His power was real, because wherever he resided there resided power. A gnomish wiry man with sallow complexion, large muddy eyes, a very large head, big yellow teeth in a jaw like the hook of an anchor, he answered to no man in the entire world but the Vozhd.

In Loyal Spain he had but one peer: Vlanoc.

Right now, early morning, he sat behind a small desk, smoking a long Russian cigarette. All the shades were drawn against the sun, which he detested, and the desk was illuminated by a bright lamp, the remainder of the room in darkness. That’s the way the Vozhd worked, that’s the way Roegen worked.

Before him stood Rolfe Ruskin, who had arrived in Barcelona that very day. ‘I want no harm to come to her. None at all.’

Roegen glared, his contempt like ship’s garbage caught on the anchor chain. Now he wrinkled his nose, the garbage slipping from the chain and catching hold on the hook of the anchor. ‘She is an intelligent woman, she will write letters to the newspapers—a scandal, just when we are about to honor you as one of our own.’

‘It was the American,’ Rolfe sucked on his lower lip, his gray mustache limp on his chin like a drowned mouse. ‘He put her up to it.’

Roegen measured the man. A fool and yet not a fool. The woman despised him and he refused to face it, yet he was man enough to want vengeance. Starr was the true fool. To give up everything for a woman’s ass—for friendship. He peered out of the bright illumination of his desk into the dark periphery where Ruskin stood nervously before him. ‘What do you suggest?’ he asked with a horsey smile.

Rolfe hesitated. He thought he had power in his hands, great power abiding in the tight sallow body of this horrible man with the contemptuous eyes. He knew Roegen did not waste his power, spent it only with purpose. Roegen, Rolfe thought, was a rational man, and Rolfe appreciated rational men. Was he not himself a rational man—direct descendant from the age of reason? If he expressed his anger and hatred for the American subjectively, Roegen would consider him a romantic bourgeois. And it wasn’t hatred—not really. It was anger because a comrade of Starr’s stature had shown disdain for the orderly acceptance of discipline. Starr had become an anarchist—a utopian who thought that one’s freedom came before the movement. For all he knew, the man was in league with those forces which disputed the party’s effort on behalf of Loyal Spain. And Vlanoc? Why else would Vlanoc have given Starr his seal of approval? They had wanted to embarrass him and Roegen just at the moment when his role as a revolutionist was to be publicized. Of course Starr had convinced Vlanoc that she would not speak out; that he, Starr, had tricked her into believing he would come to her free of the party. They played at hares and hounds, these men, until one became confused as to which were the hounds and which the hares … Still, Rolfe thought, Vlanoc was an old comrade of this man with the cruel jaw. At this point, Starr would be enough. Rolfe hesitated.

Roegen saw. Inwardly he smiled. This was the man about whom the Vozhd had spoken with praise, yet here he was befuddled by the hypocritical morality of western society. Afraid, no doubt, of the wrath of God. To himself, Roegen snickered. He hadn’t hesitated the one time in his life when hesitation would have plunged him into the dunghole. His decisiveness had earned him a name of ridicule among his comrades—those still hampered by vestiges of right and wrong, by vanity, by the romanticism of the nineteenth century. Communards, red flags, barricades. Fools. They would never dare ridicule him to his face. Except Vlanoc. Vlanoc was his equal, and equals can say what they please to one another. Aa, Vlanoc had made a mistake. Absolutely! Well, el capitán was a dead man. Yes! Vlanoc was getting old, losing his nerve. Rakosi, the salami butcher, was in a Hungarian jail, besides he had the subtlety of a meat cleaver. Soon he, Roegen, would become the leader of the Hungarian party. Which meant after the war which was certain to come he would be the Hungarian state. Spain was dead—not the tomb of fascism, but of itself. What the Vozhd couldn’t totally control, he destroyed. The people of this asshole of Europe were obstinate romantic idiots who thought in politics one could be friends: to give and expect nothing in return. Madmen. Later, after they had eaten fascist dirt for a few years, they would become more malleable and Stalin would return to them. Meanwhile he had written them off. Now he bought time—two-pronged. Keep the war going to hold Hitler’s attention and simultaneously prepare for a deal. The unity of opposites on a universal scale. World catastrophe would follow. Then revolution. Hungary would be theirs—and Roegen would be Hungary. Stalin paid his debts—if you didn’t die first. Let them laugh.

In ’33, after Hitler had seized power, Roegen had been sent with a message from Moscow to the party leaders in Berlin. There was to be no fighting in the streets against the Hitler government, then at its birth, at its weakest. The Vozhd had declared that Hitler was the icebreaker for the German revolution. Roegen brought the message and many leaders of the German party had questioned the decision. The debate became violent, hysterical. Strong men fell to their knees, wept, begged. Allow us to go into the streets. We’ll beat him—or we’ll be annihilated. It is true, his stomach convulsed in terrible pain, his heart tore itself from its roots and smashed itself against his bones. He believed they were right, but he stood his ground. A decision’s a decision. Then one of them snarled, ‘Is there no end to what you will do for him?’

And he answered, ‘For him, for the party, I will even eat shit.’

For that the Vozhd had given him a rare handshake—an even rarer smile. And his comrades called him the shiteater behind his back.

Now he would permit this new revolutionist, this world-famous scientist, to make the decision. (And he, Roegen, would see to it he made the correct one. Absolutely!) Not that the decision was not already taken, it was—Starr was in Barcelona and how would he get out?—but this fool must be made to take it too, because once he took the correct decision he would be committed for life. Just as Starr was committed for life whether he accepted it or not. No man could run away from the revolution and no man could escape the decision once it was seized. It would follow him to the grave, by which time he would have made a thousand similar decisions, each having given added impetus to the commitment until it was so fast and strong that the beginning was lost from sight. Too bad for el capitán, a man with excellent potential. Roegen laughed to himself. He was riding a very sprightly horse.

He smoked his papaross, said not a word, waited for Rolfe to commit himself.

Rolfe had by now come to some decision, exactly what he did not know, but a decision. He had made his investment in the cause years before. If he panicked now, sold short, he would take a bad loss. Very untidy! ‘Starr must be punished,’ he declared.

Roegen puffed on his cigarette without haste, withdrew it from between his ruby red lips. ‘And how should we punish him, Comrade Ruskin?’

Again Rolfe hesitated. An ancestor had been at Runnymede on 15 June, 1212, and he had the documentation to prove it. Still, wasn’t el capitán the seducer of his gentle Sarah? And young Rolfe—hadn’t el capitán—no, it was confusing—Starr must be punished! Yet Rolfe could not utter the words. Tradition was still strong in him.

Roegen said softly, almost to himself, ‘Comrade Stalin once said the central committee is the dynamo of the revolution.’ Roegen didn’t know if the Vozhd ever had said it, but he could have.

Rolfe’s heart leaped. One could change the course of the earth. ‘Couldn’t he be demoted and sent into the lines to fight?’

Roegen found it difficult to restrain his snicker. Some day he would tell the Leader and they would have a good laugh together. ‘If it were I,’ he said, looking straight into Rolfe’s eyes, ‘who had the decision to make, I would have him put to the wall and have it over with swiftly. It’s more honest, don’t you agree?’

Rolfe lowered his eyes. He became faint with the horror of it, that he, Rolfe Alan Ruskin, should be responsible for a man’s death. He had come to this. It was his decision to make. Sarah despised him, had absconded. Young Rolfe was dead. And here he was at the point of greatness in a completely foreign discipline. No one could declare that he was a narrow scientific specialist who had forgotten humanity. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice low, Roegen could barely hear him.

That won’t do, Roegen thought to himself, stilling the laugh which clamored for exit through his large horse teeth. He must say it so the walls can hear him, otherwise he will soon forget he said it. ‘Did I hear you say yes, Comrade Ruskin?’

Rolfe swept away the image of Jake Starr crumpled at the foot of a wall, dead, and cleared his throat, said in a loud shrill voice, even the walls heard him. ‘Yes!’

Roegen stood ceremoniously from his seat. ‘You’ve just been co-opted to the central committee of the British party, Comrade Ruskin.’ As he extended a congratulatory hand over the desk to Rolfe standing half-faint before him, he heard a knock on the door. ‘Well?’ he called impatiently.

The door was flung open imperiously, sunlight entering with a blare, followed by Red Struik and Heinz Brucker.

‘Excuse us, Comrade Roegen. We’re looking for el capitán. Vlanoc said, “Egg salad. Mashed.”’

Roegen, hiding his disappointment, he had wanted the pleasure of taking Jake Starr’s life for himself, shrugged. ‘He’s in his office on Fernando. I’ll have one of my men take you. I’m glad you have come. Comrade Ruskin and I have just arrived at the identical conclusion.’

They heard a rasping noise, looked around puzzled. In a corner of the room, they saw Rolfe Alan Ruskin, Nobel laureate, vomiting all over himself.

Struik and Roegen peered at one another with a knowing smile. ‘Aaa, Comrade Ruskin,’ soothed Struik, ‘the next time you won’t vomit.’

Jake Starr sat on the wooden chair in his office. Outside he could hear the early morning crowds on their way to work. He had been sleeping in the chair, and had just awakened. He stood, stretched, brushed his clothes with his hand, ran his fingers through his hair, reached for an earthen jug and took a long pull of sour red wine. He glanced at the watch. Eight. Dionisio should by now have ditched the car and jumped on the tailgate of a frontbound camión. In a few hours he would be shooting at the enemy. Jake lifted his belt and gun from the wall hook, buckled it round his waist. Sat down again, picked up the previous day’s Mundo Obrero, read it a few minutes, flung it aside. The nationalist armies were breaking through at Tortosa to the sea, cutting Loyal Spain in two, and they were still talking of victories.

Tired, first Sarah, then Greg, now worrying about Dionisio (sleep had been an elusive abstract theory), he slumped over the desk, his head in his arms, dozed off again.

Struik, Heinz and Roegen’s man had by now crossed the Plaza de Cataluña and were proceeding down the Ramblas towards Fernando.

In the Barcelona telephone exchange, before a special switchboard, sat Constanza Bienquista. She was a young woman of twenty-three, a valenciana, blonde and blue-eyed. After the May provocations in Barcelona the previous year, when the police and assault guards under Roegen had captured the telefónica from the Federación Anarquista Ibérica, the shiteater had brought in numerous operators from other cities. Constanza’s great love in life was the switchboard over which she ruled from eight in the morning until eight at night. At her fingertips was every major city in Loyal Spain. Even more: the cities of Europe. Click, plug, switch: and there was Madrid or Albacete or Murcia in the south. Click, plug, switch: London or Paris or Port Vendres. All foreign calls had to pass her board. All that power in her slender agile fingers. True, the magic power reclined behind the board in a mass of wires and metal instruments, but what good all that power without her fingers? She knew it was a special board because, unlike the others, at hers always sat one or another estranjero with headphones listening to everything that was said. They were fantastic men who knew many languages. They were also pleasant, kind in their manner, respectful always. They even brought her candy which they received at the hotel where they lived with other estranjeros. She often wondered why the estranjeros were hated by her new friends and neighbors in Barcelona. Aie, these Catalans, they were so vibrant, so talkative. Politics, politics. Who cared? Life changed so little with one or the other partido in power. Still, one must oppose the caudillo and his falangista, for what they had done had been an affront to Spain’s dignity, an assault. Spain would never forgive them. Obedeceremos pero nunca cumpliremos! We will obey but we shall never comply!

This morning Constanza was extremely busy. Her fingers had to fly. It seemed a matter of great urgency had arisen. Calls to Murcia, to Port Vendres, several to London and Paris, return calls from Paris. To Murcia. To Port Vendres. Men with foreign voices. It must be the terrible battle at Tortosa. Yes, there must be some sort of crisis in these days of crises with Loyal Spain soon to be riven in two. She was proud, for her fingers played an active role in this day’s happening, whatever it might be. Perhaps later, Louis, el francés, the one with the dark smiling eyes and cherry lips, would tell her. He was more talkative than Riccardo, el italiano, who was a bitter-faced man, though one could see he had once been gentle. War. He had been wounded twice and an arm was gone. Louis too had been wounded, fighting at Teruel in December. Still, Constanza wondered why they had come to Spain to fight since there were so many Spanish boys to do the fighting—and the Spanish boys were brave too and wanted freedom as much as did Louis and Riccardo.

Click, plug, switch. London, Paris, Port Vendres, Murcia, Barcelona.

She asked Louis when they were relieved by Riccardo for a few minutes to have café con leche what the crisis was, and he smiled, wagged his long, slim finger under her nose. ‘A matter of grave importance about which I dare not speak. A marriage contract is being drawn, bonita mia.’

‘Aie, Louis, you are very droll,’ Constanza laughed.

As she spoke with the cynical Louis, Riccardo played with the board. Happenstance had it that he plugged in Jake’s office number. Click, plug, switch.

‘Hola,’ he heard Jake’s sleepy voice.

‘Jacobito?’

‘Sì, Ricardo. Quick.’

‘They know the Negro has crossed the border. Dionisio’s car has been found. They have turned thumbs down. Struik and Heinz are in Barcelona. Attenti ai cani!’ he whispered. ‘Salud.’

Click click.

Beware the dogs. Perro! He laughed until it hurt, until the tears flowed. Hysterically. Bitterly.

He stood, raised the chair and smashed it to the floor. Enough. Stop bawling and move. No time to think, to contemplate. Words have been spoken; men have become angry; discipline has been broken; more phones will ring; more words will be spoken; orders given—the words like arrowheads tipped in curare.

His life had been decided upon.

He became afraid. He opened the drawers of his desk—wondered why; closed them. He had to jump off. He looked for his gun. He would need a gun. Looked frantically at the hook on the wall. Not there. He could hear himself breathing. Could smell his own stink of fear. Kept turning in circles. Felt the gun at his side. Get out. Heinz and Struik. They would do it grinning. He went to the door, slowly opened it. With a wrench he escaped from the shop, ran jerkily into the narrow, winding streets of the old Gothic quarter, he knew them as well as he knew his face. There was a cruel pressure under his heart, a bitter remembrance of better days. He broke out of the quarter down near the docks, and his eyes came to life with a start as he saw the garbage-foliaged shacks dug into the sand.

In Starr’s office, Red Struik was on the phone, unhappily calling Roegen. ‘He’s gone!’

‘Not far,’ Roegen said quietly; then coldly, certain of his power, he added, ‘Where can he go?’

‘We’ll find him,’ Struik said, feeling better.

At the beach, among the shacks of the totally poor, the disinherited, Jake felt the earth reverse its rotation, and he had to spread his feet to maintain his balance, his right shoulder ached as if it were shot with burning ash, his lips were parched. With a tremendous effort he regained control of himself and ran down to the water’s edge.

He was scared, tired, felt mangy from loss of sleep and from not having washed, his socks stuck to his feet from sweat, his shoulder ached, he kept worrying about Sarah and Greg, hoped Dionisio had made it to the front. There, surrounded by death, one could hide. Yes. That was it. Of course.

He soaked his head in the sea, felt slightly refreshed. For a second. Wondered suddenly: how does a man pay for his beastliness?

Life’s more than hunger, he thought, unless one is hungry, then that’s all life is. Life’s more than love—unless there’s none, then life’s nothing. Empty. Life’s more than freedom—until freedom’s gone, then life’s an iron cage.

He stared at the ugly shacks, tin, old wooden crates, garbage, a girl in rags, her eyes pus-filled, her hands like old chicken bones.

What could life possibly mean to her?

Life’s a looking glass, because everyone who looks in it sees something different. Ah, shit. Get moving.

Working his way up the beach, then through the docks, he made his way to the rear of the mountain of Montjuich, then up into the park where he hid the entire day, right under the cannon of the fort. At night he headed over the mountain, came down at the other end of town, lost himself in the stream of Catalans as they flowed northward up the boulevards. In the quadrangle of an army barracks which he knew to be controlled by a strange mélange of anarchists and socialists, he found camiones loading with fresh Spanish troops of the Republic going to Tortosa to attempt to stop the fascist drive.

He was issued khaki coveralls, a rifle, a cartridge belt, and joined them. He was a free man joining free men and he would repay them for his beastliness by doing what he should first have done, go with them into battle to fight for freedom.