6

Handing Anthony the key to his room, the hotel receptionist told him that a gentleman had been asking after him that afternoon.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I attended him myself, and he gave your full name. He didn’t leave any message or say if he would be back. From his appearance he was probably a foreigner, although he spoke Spanish as well as you, but with a better accent, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

Anthony went up to his room wondering who this anonymous visitor might be, and how he had found him when he had not told anyone where he was staying. Of course when he arrived he had registered at the hotel, and so perhaps the management had informed the police that they had a new foreign guest. Many foreigners passed through Madrid, but these were uncertain times. But if it had been a policeman, why had he not identified himself? And above all, what interest could the Spanish police, or anyone else for that matter, have in talking to him? Could something have happened in London to make the embassy want to get in touch with him? And then again, why keep everything so secret?

Still pondering, he took out a book he had tried in vain to read on the train, but found he could not concentrate even in the solitude of his room. After a while he closed the book and went out for a walk.

The cold outside was intense, but the center of Madrid was thronged with people. Seeing all the passers-by strolling along apparently unconcerned, and caught up in the kind of verbal skirmishes so typical of the quick-witted inhabitants of the capital, he felt infected by the general air of enjoyment, something that always made his stays in Spain so pleasant.

Wandering aimlessly through the streets, Anthony found himself outside a tavern he remembered having visited before. Inviting voices and laughter floated out through its doors. There did not seem to be room for a single extra person inside, but before too long he managed to push his way up to the bar. Despite the tumult, a waiter served him with surprising speed and friendliness: it was as though he were the only customer in the tavern. Anthony ordered a plate of prawns and a glass of wine. While waiting for them to arrive, he recalled previous occasions when he had been in the same tavern. The walls were covered with photographs of bullfighters: this was where a very popular and very argumentative bullfighting supporters’ club met. Sometimes the matadors themselves came to share a few glasses of wine with their public. Whenever that happened, there was a truce in the bitter arguments, because the bullfighters were authentic idols, and no one would dare express an opinion that might upset them. In spite of the rows, the atmosphere was friendly, and the sessions always went on with songs and music until late into the night. Anthony loved the ambience. One night some years earlier someone had pointed out the presence of a really famous matador, the legendary Ignacio Sánchez Mejías, getting on in years, but still distinguished-looking. Anthony knew him by name, and knew that as well as being a widely admired bullfighter he was an intellectual and a talented poet. Shortly after this chance meeting, Anthony heard he had been killed in the ring. Federico García Lorca had dedicated a heartfelt poem to him, and Anthony, who had been greatly moved by his death, had translated the poem into English in a version that was grammatically correct, but lacked any emotional, poetic charge.

This recollection and the thought of his own naïveté made him laugh out loud. Seeing this, the man next to him at the bar growled:

“What’s so funny?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re foreign, aren’t you?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“And it’s obvious you think that what’s going on here is funny.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what you mean. I was laughing because I was reminded of something that has nothing to do with the present.”

While he was apologizing, Anthony realized the reason for the misunderstanding. Behind his back, two groups were caught up in a violent, unpleasant argument. At first he thought it must be one of the typical quarrels about bullfighting, but on this occasion it was something completely different. The smaller of the two groups was composed of young boys who looked well dressed and well fed. The other group seemed rougher, and to judge by their clothing, their caps and the polka-dot kerchiefs around their necks, they were mostly artisans and laborers. The original row had progressed to the stage of shouted insults. The workmen were shouting “Fascists!” while the others replied with “Reds!” Both sides shouted “Bastards!” at each other. But there was nothing to suggest that words might give way to deeds. Both groups were weighing up each other’s strength, with the result that neither side was inclined to go beyond insults. All of a sudden, one of the youngsters made to reach for something in his pocket. Seeing his intention, one of his companions restrained him, shouted something in his ear, and then made for the exit. The others followed suit, never once turning their backs on the workmen, whom they still stared at menacingly.

“As you can see,” Anthony’s neighbor commented once the atmosphere in the tavern had calmed down again, “people used to come in here to fight over whether Cagancho or Gitanillo de Triana was better . . . bullfighters, that is.”

“Yes, of course. I love bullfighting.”

“My, aren’t you a fine chap! Mateo, another glass of red for me, and the same for this gentleman here. No, don’t worry, you can buy the next round and we’re all square. Well, as I was saying, that’s how it used to be. Nowadays it’s: Mussolini’s the one; no, it’s Lenin; the devil take the lot of them, I say, with all due respect to your ideas. Up to now, as you’ve seen, it doesn’t go beyond trading insults. We Spaniards are good at bravado, but are reluctant to come to blows. But the moment we do, not even God can stop us.”

Spaniards also have keen hearing when it comes to conversations that are none of their business, and do not hesitate to butt in and give their own opinion, which of course is not merely correct, but the final word on the subject. As a result, within a few minutes a fierce and noisy debate sprang up in which many locals fought for Anthony’s attention so as to offer him their irrefutable diagnosis of Spain’s ills and their simple solution. Most were workmen, but some were office workers, artisans, tradesmen and cub reporters, all of them united by their devotion to bullfighting in a way that transcended social barriers. The youngsters who had burst in earlier were members of the right-wing Falange. They were doubtless looking for a fight, but the peaceful atmosphere and the apolitical nature of the tavern had taken the wind out of their sails. These Falange activists, Anthony was told, were mostly very young, and therefore impetuous and reckless; their party had fared badly in the recent elections, and now they were trying to stir up trouble. They thought they were the masters of the streets, especially in Madrid, although now and again the socialists or anarchists gave them a roughing-up. Recently these confrontations had become more violent, and often ended up with people being wounded or even killed. The Falange, somebody said, were nothing but poor little rich kids; the problem was that their daddies not only gave them money but lent them their pistols. Apparently that same morning a handful of these blue-shirts had broken into a socialist meeting and fired a shotgun at the speaker’s platform. Before all those present had recovered from the shock, the attackers had sped off in an automobile. And if at that moment, the man went on, anyone looking like a capitalist or, still worse, a priest, had chanced to pass by, the socialists would have made mincemeat of him. That was how, he concluded, the innocent paid for the guilty.

The problem was, another man asserted, that by now there were no innocent or guilty parties left. It was easy to accuse the blue-shirts of everything that was going on, but you had to remember who had paved the way for it: the attacks, strikes and acts of sabotage, the burning of churches and convents, the bombs and the dynamite—not forgetting the clearly stated aim of all of this disruption, namely the overthrow of the government, the breakup of the family and the abolition of private property. And all this tolerated, out of cowardice or connivance, by the authorities. Given this panorama, it was hardly surprising that certain sectors of society should have decided to take steps to make their voices heard, or at the very least die with their weapons in their hands.

Before he could finish speaking, he was interrupted by a small fellow wearing a threadbare bowler hat. He said his name was Mosca, and that he belonged to the U.G.T. union. According to Señor Mosca, the Catalans were the ones to blame for the conflict. With the excuse of simply modifying the administrative structures of the Spanish state, the Catalans had in fact destroyed Spain’s unity, so that now the nation was falling apart like a wall with its cement removed. Since there were no Catalans present, nobody refuted the argument or pointed out that the metaphor did not really apply. This encouraged Señor Mosca to proclaim that with the disappearance of any sense of belonging to a common country, every citizen signed up with the first lot of people marching past their house, and that rather than seeing their neighbor as a fellow countryman, they considered him their enemy. Before he could finish, he was shouted down by several other people, all of them anxious to give their own analysis of the situation. In order to make himself heard, Señor Mosca stood on tiptoe and stretched out his neck, but this only meant that the flailing arms of a neighbor sent his bowler hat flying.

The arguments became increasingly heated. Anthony, whose glass the barman had refilled several times, spoke up to say that in his opinion everything could be resolved through dialogue and negotiation. This set everyone against him, because since he was not defending anyone’s point of view, they all thought he must be on the side of their adversary. In the end, a man came up to him and signaled that he should follow him to the door. Tossing some coins on the bar, Anthony did as he suggested. When the two of them had safely pushed their way through the crowd and were out in the street, the stranger said:

“There’s no reason you should get into a fistfight.”

“You think I would have?”

“More than likely. You’re the tallest, and as a foreigner you have no one to fight on your behalf. If you’re not convinced, go back in. As you may imagine, I couldn’t give a damn.”

“No, you’re right, and I’m glad you made me realize it. Besides, it’s late, and I ought to be getting back to my hotel rather than poking my nose in where it’s not wanted.”

He held out his hand to his unknown benefactor, but instead of taking it, the other man stuffed his own hands into his coat pocket.

“I’ll accompany you if you like. The streets are dangerous, especially at this time of night. Of course, I’m no guarantee of your safety, but since I’m from Madrid and have knocked about a bit, I know when it’s best to change pavements or to take to your heels.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble. My hotel is close by.”

“If that’s the case, it won’t be any trouble to me. And if instead of going directly to your hotel you’d prefer to spend some time in good company, I know a place just round the corner. It’s very clean, not expensive, and the girls are first-rate.”

“Ah,” said Anthony, feeling the effects of the alcohol evaporate and his senses recover thanks to the cold night air and the recent danger, “when I was a student here in Madrid, I occasionally paid a visit to a house of ill repute.”

“Well, this should blow the cobwebs away,” said the stranger.

They walked up Gran Vía for a while, then turned off down a dark side street. When they reached the front door of a narrow hovel with peeling walls, they clapped their hands until the night watchman appeared, staggering and brandishing a bunch of keys. He opened the door ceremoniously, received his tip with a bow and a belch, then disappeared once more. The two of them went into a gloomy courtyard and Anthony’s newfound friend said:

“Go up to the second floor on the right and ask for Toñina. I won’t go with you because I’m not in the mood for that kind of thing tonight, but I’ll wait for you here with no problem, smoking a cigarette. Don’t rush, I’m not in any hurry. Oh, and before you go up, I recommend you leave me your wallet, passport and any valuables you’ve got with you, apart from the price of your session and a bit besides in case you want something special. The girls are honest, but there can be pickpockets in even the best places.”

This sounded reasonable to Anthony, so he handed over his money, his documents, watch and fountain pen. Then by the dim light from a lamp flickering in the stairwell, he climbed to the second floor and knocked on the right-hand door. An old woman in a housecoat and shawl opened it for him. Four other women of a similar age were listening to the radio and playing cards around a table with a brazier underneath. The Englishman said he wanted to see Toñina. The old woman looked surprised, but said nothing and disappeared behind a curtain. She returned immediately with a skinny, very pretty young girl, whom they must have been hiding because she was underage. The girl took Anthony by the hand and led him into a tiny room containing a camp bed and washbasin. He emerged a few minutes later, well satisfied. He paid and then went back down the stairs, but when he reached the courtyard his friend had vanished. He was not out in the street either, and everywhere seemed to be locked up for the night, so Anthony hastened back to his hotel and went to bed. As he switched off the light it occurred to him he might have been duped, but he was so exhausted he closed his eyes and went straight to sleep.