17

With the casual arrogance of someone who has centered his life on danger, José Antonio Primo de Rivera pressed his foot down on the accelerator of his small but powerful yellow Chevrolet, ignoring the patches of ice on the road. They turned off the Castellana down Calle Zurburán as far as Calle Nicasio Gallego, where the car pulled up outside Number 21. The pair of faithful bodyguards leapt out first, pistols in hand, to make sure the coast was clear. José Antonio and Anthony followed. Two men wearing leather jackets and berets on guard outside the doorway let them in after they had said the password, raising an arm and shouting “Arise, Spain!” as they did so.

The Center, as the headquarters of the Spanish Falange and the J.O.N.S. was called, was situated in a large detached house. Until a short while earlier, it had been on a single floor of a building on Santo Domingo hill, but to the neighbors’ great relief, the owner had thrown them out for not paying their rent: the movement’s coffers were not exactly overflowing. Eventually the Falange had come to rest in this new location thanks to a stroke of fortune and the painful recourse to intermediaries and subletting. Even so, their position was precarious. There was nothing they could do when those in power lavished resources on silencing their voices, José Antonio had explained as they sped there. Anthony listened without comment, more worried about a possible traffic accident than any plot being hatched against the lunatic driver and his underlings. They skidded several times, and only José Antonio’s skill and good luck prevented them from crashing into a lamp post. Anthony was naturally phlegmatic, but saw no reason to run unnecessary risks, and was afraid he had put his physical well-being in the hands of a blithe idiot.

Despite the late hour and foul weather, the Center was swarming with people. Most of them were smooth-cheeked adolescents. Some of them were wearing royal blue shirts with a red insignia. The same insignia, a yoke crossed vertically by a fistful of arrows, appeared in the center of a flag with red and black stripes draped across one wall. However busy all those present were with their own tasks, as soon as they saw José Antonio come in, they all left what they were doing, stood to attention, clicked their heels and raised an arm in salute. This attitude of respect and devotion toward the Chief impressed the Englishman; although he was averse to any great show of emotion, he could not help but feel the sense of fanatical energy in the atmosphere. Glancing sideways at his companion, he could see that he was transformed the moment he crossed the threshold of the Center. The cheerful, courteous and slightly shy aristocrat he had known and talked to in the duke’s mansion had turned into a resolute leader, with an imposing aspect and resonant voice. Straight-backed, his eyes glinting and cheeks aflame, José Antonio was giving orders with the authority of someone who expected nothing less than blind obedience. As Anthony watched him, he recalled the images of Mussolini he had seen at the cinema, and wondered how much of this display was imitation or show; he also wondered whether Paquita had seen him transformed in this manner, or if she only knew his private persona. Perhaps, he thought, it is me he wants to impress, not her. If he is afraid of me as a rival, this is the best way to put me off.

But these thoughts did not completely distract him from his own situation. It had been reckless of him to come alone to a place like this, which seemed dominated by a thirst for primeval, irresponsible violence, a violence which in addition could be met with similar force from outside. He was careful not to stray far from José Antonio’s side, seeing this as his only protection while he decided if he was surrounded by idealists, madmen or criminals.

A burly man of medium height and with a bulbous forehead came over. He went up to José Antonio to tell him something important, but stopped short when he saw the stranger, and frowned deeply.

“He’s with me,” said José Antonio, noticing his comrade’s reticence. “He’s English.”

“Well, well,” said the other man slyly as he held out his hand, “so Mosley is sending us reinforcements.”

“Mr. Whitelands has nothing to do with politics,” José Antonio explained. “In reality, he’s a great expert in Spanish painting. What did you want to tell me, Raimundo?”

“Sancho called from Seville a while ago. Nothing urgent—I’ll explain later.”

José Antonio turned to Anthony and said:

“Sancho Dávila is the leader of the Falange in Seville. It’s always important to stay in contact with our different centers, and now more than ever. The comrade here is Raimundo Fernández Cuesta, a lawyer and a friend and companion from the start. Comrade Raimundo Fernández Cuesta was one of the Falange’s founding members, and is currently our secretary-general. That man over there, who looks like me only with a mustache, is my brother Miguel. And what you see around you is the cage of the wild beast. This is where the university union, the press department and the militias are based.”

“It’s all very interesting,” said Anthony, “and thank you for the trust you’ve shown by bringing me here.”

“It’s no such thing,” said José Antonio. “For good or ill, our notoriety means we don’t have to keep secret either who we are or what we get up to. Nor even our intentions. The police have files on all of us, and doubtless there are informers within our ranks. It would be naïve to think otherwise. If you’ll allow me, I’ll just deal with a few bits of business and then we can go and have supper. I’m ready to die for the Fatherland, but not of hunger.”

Several Falange members had come up to speak to the Chief. José Antonio introduced them all to the Englishman, who struggled to remember their names. Although they spoke in short bursts, parodying the brusque precision of military parlance, their diction, vocabulary and attitude betrayed their elevated social origin and a considerable level of education. Those in positions of responsibility were, like José Antonio, around thirty years of age; the others were very young, probably university students. This meant that Anthony’s initial concern gradually gave way to a sense of feeling at ease, especially as everyone seemed so well-disposed toward him. Possibly they thought he shared their ideology, and since it was the Chief himself who had brought him there, he felt under no obligation to disabuse them. If he was asked anything about the British Union of Fascists, he said only that he had never had the opportunity to meet Oswald Mosley personally, and to mutter vague generalities that his condition as a foreigner helped sound convincing.

After a while, José Antonio, without losing his cordial and energetic demeanor but beginning to show obvious signs of impatience, cut short the endless stream of inquiries and exhorted them all not to let up in their efforts or to lose faith in their project, which was on the verge of bearing fruit. Then he took Anthony by the arm, saying:

“Let’s leave while we can or we’ll never get out of here.”

He raised his voice to ask his brother if he wanted to go with them. Miguel Primo de Rivera excused himself, saying he had other things to do. Anthony reflected that possibly, consciously or unconsciously, he had no wish to be seen with his elder brother, preferring to avoid the domineering personality of the taller, better-looking and more brilliant firstborn overshadowing his own. It was natural for Miguel to be devoted to José Antonio, but also for him not to want to risk comparisons that would in all likelihood be unfavorable.

Since the invitation had been directed toward Miguel, but José Antonio seemed to be including anyone else interested, Raimundo Fernández Cuesta joined them, together with a reserved, rather gaunt individual whose round-framed glasses robbed his appearance of any possible air of nobility. Rafael Sánchez Mazas was an intellectual rather than a man of action. In spite of this, as José Antonio explained to the Englishman while they were on the way out, he had been a founding member of the Spanish Falange and was on its Central Committee. He was the one who had coined the phrase they had all adopted: “Arise, Spain!” Anthony took an immediate liking to him.

Together with the two bodyguards, the four of them crammed into the yellow Chevrolet and headed for a Basque restaurant called Amaya in Carrera de San Jerónimo. As they entered, the owner raised his right arm to them.

“Don’t pay him any attention,” José Antonio joked, slipping easily into the familiar form of Spanish to address Anthony. “If that socialist Largo Caballero comes in, he’ll raise his left fist. What’s important is that you can eat well here.”

They were served a hearty meal and as much wine as they could drink. José Antonio ate heartily and before long they were all very lively, including Anthony, more relaxed now that he was on neutral territory. He no longer felt obliged to conceal his opinions. In addition, José Antonio was friendliness itself, which meant that the other two treated him, if not exactly cordially, at least with respect. Halfway through a first course of scrambled eggs with peppers, the Chief said:

“I trust, Anthony, that when you get back to London you will report on what you have seen and heard here objectively and accurately. I know there is a lot of nonsense said about us, and we’re never judged on our version of the story. In most cases, the people giving this misinformation are not doing so deliberately. The Spanish government does all it can to silence us. That means people hear their version, not ours. The government censors and seizes our publications, and if we ask permission to hold a meeting, it is systematically refused. Then, since in accordance with the democratic convictions they claim to profess they cannot deny us our constitutional right, they give us permission at the very last minute, so that we don’t have a chance to organize the event, or to publicize it properly. Despite this, many people turn up, the meeting is a success, but the next day the press only publishes a short article in which the newspaper expresses its disapproval and adds three or four garbled quotes from the speeches. If, as usually happens, there is trouble, they only report the casualties the others suffered, not ours, and they invariably blame us for what has happened, as if we were the only ones looking for trouble, or as if we were encouraging the violence of which we are the main victims.”

“And in these last months,” Sánchez Mazas added dispiritedly, “with the party declared illegal, we can’t even hope for that.”

Anthony thought this over for a moment, and said:

“Well, if everyone is against you, there must be some reason for it.”

His words led to a moment’s stupefied silence. Sánchez Mazas’ eyes widened behind his glasses, and Raimundo Fernández Cuesta’s hand moved toward his pistol. Fortunately, José Antonio resolved the situation by bursting out laughing.

“Ah, the famous fair play of the English!” he cried, clapping Anthony on the shoulder. Then, turning serious once more, he added: “But there’s no such thing here, my friend. They attack us because they’re afraid of us. And they’re afraid of us because reason and history are on our side. We are the future, and the weapons of the past are useless against the future.”

“That’s right,” said Sánchez Mazas with cautious conviction. “If here and now, repressed and gagged as we are, we continue to grow and go from strength to strength, what would happen if they left our hands untied?”

“We would do away with the political parties in a flash,” concluded Fernández Cuesta.

“Well, if you want to get rid of them,” said Anthony, plucking up courage, “it’s logical that the political parties try to defend themselves.”

“You’re missing the point,” Sánchez Mazas retorted. “We want to get rid of the parties, not the people in them. We want an end to all that’s false and obscurantist in the parliamentary system and to offer Spaniards the possibility of joining a single great common cause.”

“They already have one,” said Anthony.

“No,” José Antonio insisted. “What exists in Spain today is not a project. It’s a soulless mechanism lacking in all faith. The Liberal state does not believe in anything, not even itself. The socialists are bandits, the radicals are taking advantage, the Confederation of the Autonomous Right tries to please everyone. This means that the National Assembly, which is supposed to legislate, has degenerated into a den of the most disgusting intrigues and the most shameful deals. It’s become a cheap spectacle, nothing more. With things as they are, Republicans are nothing more than puppets for the unruly masses of the violent workers’ organizations. The times we live in give no quarter.”

As he spoke, José Antonio gradually raised his voice, and a respectful silence fell over the room. The two bodyguards kept a watchful eye on the other patrons, none of whom moved. José Antonio noticed the effect his harangue had produced, and smiled with satisfaction. Anthony was impressed by his conviction and energy. He himself had not the slightest interest in politics. In the last English elections he had voted Labor at Catherine’s insistence; in the previous ones, Conservative to please his father-in-law. In neither case did he know anything about the candidates or their party manifestos. Educated in the principles of Liberalism, he considered it a good system as long as it did not show itself to be too inefficient, and felt no attraction toward any other ideology. During his years at Cambridge he had instinctively rejected the Marxist ideas so fashionable among the students. He thought Mussolini was a charlatan, although he credited him with having brought discipline to the Italian people. Hitler on the other hand inspired nothing but aversion. Not so much for his ideology, which he saw as more bluster than anything else, but because of the threat his posturing represented for Europe. Too young to be called up between 1914 and 1918, Anthony had seen the consequences of the Great War with his own eyes, and now he looked on as the nations which took part in that butchery rushed headlong toward a repetition of the same madness. Deep down, all Anthony wanted to do was to dedicate himself to his work, without any further complications than those created by his turbulent private life. Even so, he had not been able to resist José Antonio’s magnetism, and if the Falange Chief was capable of provoking such a reaction in a skeptical foreigner busy tucking into a plate of stew, what might he arouse in well-disposed crowds in an atmosphere that lent itself to exalted, passionate feelings?

Before he had time to answer this question, it was José Antonio himself who eased the tension by raising his glass and saying jovially:

“Let’s make a toast to the future, but let’s not forget the present. It would be a crime to let these tasty dishes grow cold, and an even greater crime to bore a stranger with our domestic problems. Let’s eat, drink, and talk about more pleasant things.”

Rafael Sánchez Mazas followed up this proposal by asking Anthony if his knowledge of Spanish painting of the Golden Century extended to its literature. Happy to return to territory about which he felt less ignorant and insecure, the Englishman replied that, although the main object of his research and interests was in fact painting, and more precisely the work of Velázquez, he would be hard put to assess that without being aware of other manifestations of the extraordinary Spanish culture of that glorious period. After all, Velázquez was the exact contemporary of Calderón and Gracián, and there was ample proof of his contacts with literature. He had painted Góngora, and although the portrait of Quevedo could not be attributed to him, as some people had done, this mistake in itself proved that he could have done so. In the Madrid of his day, Velázquez must surely have crossed paths with Cervantes, Lope de Vega and Tirso de Molina, and the intellectual atmosphere was filled with the poetry of Saint Teresa, Saint John of the Cross and Fray Luis de León. To show his competence in the matter, Anthony recited:

Del monte en la ladera,

por mi mano plantado tengo un huerto,

que en la primavera

de bella flor cubierto

ya muestra en esperanza el fruto cierto.1

He did not do it very well, but his willingness and his obvious love for all things Spanish—and above all, his picturesque accent—meant that not only his table companions but a number of other guests and several waiters all burst into applause. So the meal ended with laughter and in an atmosphere of pleasant comradeship.

The cold night air outside refreshed and enlivened the cheerful group. When Anthony announced he was retiring, José Antonio refused to hear of such a reasonable idea. The Englishman, unable to resist the Chief’s irrepressible energy, admitted defeat and squashed inside the car with the others once again.

Driving back the way they had come, they sped along Cedaceros and out into Alcalá. After passing the Cibeles fountain they parked the car and walked to the basement of the Café Lyon D’Or. José Antonio and his followers often went to a literary gathering in this small, noisy and smoke-filled room, known as the Happy Whale, where the walls were decorated with paintings of sailors. The new arrivals greeted all their friends, briefly presented the stranger they had brought with them, and then without more ado joined in the debate. José Antonio seemed at home in the midst of this din, and Anthony, who was used to this kind of Madrid reunion, soon found his own discreet but amiable place. As well as being poets, novelists or playwrights, most of those present were fervent members of the Falange, but in that relaxed atmosphere there was no respect for hierarchies when it came to giving opinions or refuting an adversary. Anthony was pleased to discover that José Antonio was more flexible in his ideological stance than his companions when it came to the cut and thrust of argument. At that moment, a play by Alejandro Casona called Our Natacha was all the rage. According to the patrons of the Happy Whale, its success with public and critics alike was due mainly, if not entirely, to its explicit Soviet propaganda. José Antonio admitted he had not seen the work in question, but praised The Beached Mermaid, an earlier play by the same author. A short time later, once more against the general view, he expressed his unreserved enthusiasm for the Charlie Chaplin film Modern Times, despite its overtly socialist message.

And so between whiskies and heated disputes, two hours flew by. When everyone finally left, they followed the custom in Spain by lingering a long while out on the pavement giving one another farewell hugs or shouting at the tops of their voices as though they had not seen each other for ages or were saying goodbye forever. A painfully skinny woman dressed in rags came up and offered them lottery tickets. Sánchez Mazas bought a strip. As she moved on, the lottery seller smiled at him.

“If I win, the money will go to the cause.”

“Don’t tempt fate, Rafael,” said José Antonio, tilting his head to one side.

Eventually, the group split up.

Feeling quite merry, Anthony started to walk back toward his hotel. He had gone some distance along the deserted Calle Alcalá when he heard the sound of hasty footsteps behind him. His alarm was only half relieved when he realized his pursuer was Raimundo Fernández Cuesta. Anthony felt uncomfortable in his presence—he had been taciturn all night, and now his expression was even darker.

“Are we heading in the same direction?” he asked.

“No,” replied the other man, panting from the effort to catch up with the Englishman.

“What can I do for you, then?”

Before replying, the Falange secretary-general looked all around him. When he saw they were alone, he said slowly:

“I’ve known José Antonio since he was born. I know him as well as I know myself. There has never been and never will be another man like him.”

Seeing that this ringing pronouncement was followed by a prolonged silence, Anthony thought that perhaps this was all he had to say, and was about to make some anodyne comment when the other man added in a confidential tone:

“It’s obvious he feels a sincere, fraternal affection toward you. At first I could not understand why, but finally I have understood that José Antonio and you share something of great value to him, something both sublime and vital. In other circumstances, you would be rivals. But the circumstances are not normal, and his noble soul knows nothing of rancor or egotism.”

He fell silent again, then after a pause added gruffly:

“My only wish is to respect his feelings and to give you some advice: don’t betray the friendship he honors you with. Nothing more: goodnight and Arise, Spain!”

With that, he turned abruptly on his heel and walked off at a brisk pace. Anthony was left pondering the meaning of the strange message and the vague threat it contained. He was a woeful psychologist, but he had dedicated his life to the great masters of portraiture, and so was able to infer something from other people’s facial expressions. Raimundo Fernández Cuesta did not seem to him to be behaving with the impulsiveness typical of the Falangists. Rather, he possessed a cold, calculating ideology. Anthony realized that if the Falange did turn to action, not only would they be unpredictable, but some of them would also be implacable.

Notes

1. On the side of a hill / planted by my own hand I have a garden / which shows in spring / covered in beautiful flowers / the hope of certain fruit.