18

Anthony was awakened by a distant crash, like the sound of heavy artillery. Startled, he thought something terrible must have just started. Then, when the first detonation was not followed by any further ones, he thought perhaps it had been nothing more than part of a bad dream. To drive it away, he went over to the window and flung open the shutters. It was still night, and the sky was too uniformly purple to suggest that day was dawning. There were no vehicles or people down in the square. If Madrid were burning there would be shouting everywhere, he told himself, not this ominous silence. Everything was calm, as they say it is in the eye of a storm.

Anthony crept back into bed, tired and frozen, but he was too unsettled to get back to sleep. He had left the shutters open, and soon saw the rectangle of the window growing lighter. He got up again, put on a thick flannel dressing gown and looked out. The square was still deserted, and from the adjoining streets there was no roar of trucks or rattle of carriages on the cobbles, no car horns or any of the other usual noises.

Behind the shutters, the royal city is silent, waiting.

With the first light of day the lights that have been burning all night in the National Security Headquarters go out. Don Alonso Mallol is there, waiting for the arrival of the Interior Minister, who has been closeted with the Prime Minister for several hours.

The surprise results of the February 18 elections have made it a difficult moment for Señor Mallol to be taking over as director-general of National Security. Conflicts are multiplying. His instructions from the government are hesitant and contradictory, and he is not even sure he can trust his own subordinates, whom he has inherited from the previous government, which in turn inherited them from the previous one, and so on ad infinitum. Trusting to instinct, he has placed men he only half knows in the key posts, ignoring advice and refusing to read reports that are probably tendentious anyway: he knows that in Madrid every report is one part truth to three parts tittle-tattle. As for the rest of his staff, he is relying more on the inertia of civil servants than on their loyalty.

On the stroke of eight an assistant announces the arrival of Lieutenant-Colonel Don Gumersindo Marranón. The director-general asks him to come through at once, and he enters accompanied by the limping Captain Coscolluela. They exchange lengthy greetings, and the newcomers give their reports in a few dry sentences, as though a lack of enthusiasm were the guarantee of objectivity. Don Alonso listens carefully: the lieutenant-colonel is one of the few men he can trust.

His report may have been monotonous, but it is hardly reassuring: in Madrid and the rest of Spain, churches have been set on fire. Thanks to the late hour at which the attacks took place, there were no worshippers in the affected buildings, and damage was minimal. In some cases, the agitators simply burned papers and rags in the church atrium, creating more smoke than anything else. Symbolic acts, although it is also possible that right-wing agents provocateurs were responsible. If that is the case, they have succeeded, because a fireman has died in Madrid attempting to put out one of the blazes, and a protest march is being organized, which the Falange is certain to take part in. To make matters worse, the Falange has called a meeting at the Europa cinema for the following Saturday at seven in the evening. A month earlier, prior to the elections, they held a meeting in the same place, and crowds of people had turned up. On that occasion the event had passed off without serious disturbances. But back then all the political parties were busy with their own campaigns. Don Alonso asks what the meeting is for. The lieutenant-colonel shrugs. He doesn’t know, but he supposes it must be to justify their crushing defeat in the elections, where the Falange did not win a single seat, and to explain their future strategy to their followers. The Falange does not seem inclined to disappear, and if it wants to play a role in Spanish politics, it will have to come up with something. Whatever the reason, the meeting promises to spark trouble.

The lieutenant-colonel pauses and looks inquiringly at his boss, who nods in response: authorizing the march and the meeting are as dangerous as banning them; the slightest thing could light the fuse that sets off the explosion. Better to leave the decision in the hands of the Interior Minister, who will probably consult with the Prime Minister. This delegation of responsibility is not so much a sign of cowardice or deference as merely common sense: in the whole of Spain, the Prime Minister is the only person who still believes there is a peaceful way out of the current situation.

This cautious optimism is not gratuitous. Don Manuel Azaña has many years of experience in government, and, as is often said, he has seen everything. When the Republic was first proclaimed in 1931, he became Minister of War; shortly afterward he was appointed Prime Minister. In 1933 he went into opposition, and now he is back as Prime Minister, when the panorama is not merely gloomy, but desperate. But not for him: an intellectual first and a politician second, he has reached the pinnacle of power thanks to the swift, unpredictable twists and turns of history rather than through his own efforts. This has meant he does not know or want to know anything of the murkier recesses of real politics, something that both his adversaries and his supporters accuse him of. Perhaps also for this reason he believes in a loyal opposition, one that will not seize power without thought for the consequences. Even now he thinks that dialogue and negotiation can provide an answer to Spain’s pressing problems: strife among the workers, agrarian reform, armed confrontation, the Catalan question.

Very few others share his view. Unlike what happened in the early days of the Republic, the workers’ organizations have turned their backs on the politicians. It is only indecisiveness and internal wrangling that is preventing them from descending into the streets and seizing power by force. There is no shortage of reasons for them to do so: the right-wing government that preceded the current one did all it could to invalidate the progress they had achieved up to then, and repressed all protests with unusual brutality. Now the Popular Front is trying to redress the situation but is meeting formidable obstacles: the opposition, led by Gil-Robles and Calvo Sotelo, is torpedoing the new government’s social reform program in parliament, while the owners of the large fortunes in Spain are maneuvering on the European stock exchanges to bring about a devaluation of the peseta, mass unemployment and a collapse of the economy. The Church and the press, largely in the hands of the Right, are stirring people up and spreading panic; the most influential intellectuals (Ortega, Unamuno, Baroja, Azorín) are renouncing the Republic and calling for drastic change. Anticipating a coup by the military or the fascists, the trade unions are collecting money to buy weapons, while the workers’ militias are on standby day and night, ready to intervene at the first alarm signal.

Don Manuel Azaña is aware of all these factors, but disagrees with everyone else as to their importance. In his opinion, the workers will not decide to take to the streets: the socialists and anarchists will not unite, and the Communists have received strict orders from the Komintern to stay on the alert and wait; the moment is not ripe for revolution, and to try to impose the dictatorship of the proletariat would be an error of judgment. For the same reason, he does not believe there will be a right-wing coup. The monarchists have already asked Gil-Robles to proclaim himself dictator, and Gil-Robles has refused.

That leaves the Army, of course. But Azaña knows it well: not for nothing was he Minister of War. He is aware that beneath their threatening exterior, the military are inconsistent, changeable and manipulable. On the one hand they huff and puff and criticize; on the other they whine about promotion, postings and medals. They are desperate for privileges and jealous of anyone else having them. They all think that others with less merit have stolen a march on them; in short, they can be sweet-talked like children. Accustomed by their strict hierarchies to do only what a superior has decided, they cannot reach any agreement on joint action. All the different arms (artillery, infantry, engineers) are at daggers drawn with each other, and it is enough for the Navy to do something for the Air Force to do the opposite. After the Popular Front’s recent electoral triumph, General Franco went to see then–Prime Minister Portela Valladares and urged him to put a stop to the reigning disorder, with the Army’s help, if necessary. Francisco Franco is a young general; he possesses a lively practical intelligence and has proved his worth: in Africa, he enjoyed a meteoric rise which gained him a merited reputation among the officer class. His personal qualities and influence might make him one of the leaders of the rebellion, were it not for the fact that his genial character and his natural reserve inspired mistrust among the other generals. It is doubtful whether Franco’s veiled threat to the Prime Minister enjoyed the backing of the entire Army, but his visit so terrified Portela Valladares that he resigned on the spot. It was the vacuum created by his resignation that led to Don Manuel Azaña taking over as Prime Minister once more.

An assistant knocks and comes into the director-general’s office carrying a tray with a steaming jug of coffee and a basket of rolls on it. Another man brings in cups, plates, glasses, knives and forks, napkins and a jug of fresh water, then sets the table for the snack. Just as they are finishing their breakfast, two other men make their appearance: Don Amós Salvador, the Interior Minister, and his deputy, Don Carlos Esplá. Laughter and greetings. Mallol and Esplá, who are both masons, quickly exchange signs. They are accompanied by assistants, officials, inspectors and a civil governor who happens to be passing through Madrid. Briefcases are piled high on the desks; the coat rack sways from the weight of overcoats thrown on it. Cigarettes are rolled, pipes and a few cheroots are lit. The air in the office becomes dense with smoke.

As expected, the director-general decides to authorize the Falange meeting at the Europa cinema. Precautions will be taken, and matters will take their course. If the Falange supporters turn up and cause trouble, it will give the government an excuse to declare the party illegal and to throw the main leaders in jail. If need be, a curfew can be imposed. In his usual succinct way, and with occasional help from his colleague Captain Coscolluela, Lieutenant-Colonel Marranón reports on the latest movements of Primo de Rivera and his entourage in the capital and provinces. Then they turn to other matters.

According to reliable information, the secretary of the Communist International, Georgi Dimitrov, is still determined to defend the Republic at any cost. From that side at least there is no danger. Of course, the military are still plotting; many of them are in close contact with the Falange or the Traditionalist Communion headed by the Carlist Manuel Fal Conde. As a preventive measure, the most troublesome generals have been posted to commands on the margins, well away from the strategic centers.

News censorship is to be maintained, both about acts of violence, including the burning of churches, and about strikes in different sectors throughout the country. The civil governor raises the possibility of using the Army to cover basic services and supply problems caused by the strikes. In principle this does not seem like a good idea, but it needs to be studied on a case-by-case basis. For the moment, Catalonia is quiet, but Andalusia is very restless.

Another hour of their busy schedules is taken up with matters that are less important but vital to the smooth running of the administration. After that, red-eyed from the smoke and lack of sleep, the officials leave the office one by one and return to their own departments. When the director-general is once more alone with Lieutenant-Colonel Marranón and Captain Coscolluela, he stifles a yawn, rouses himself and murmurs wearily:

“What news is there of the Englishman?”

The lieutenant-colonel was already rising to leave, but now sits down again. Glancing out of the corner of his eye at the captain, he says in his flat voice:

“Nothing definite for the moment. He seems like a halfwit, but that can’t be the case. He lied deliberately when we interrogated him.”

He briefly refers to the dialogue he had with Anthony Whitelands the previous evening, pauses for a moment for his superior to absorb the information, then adds:

“Last thing yesterday I received a telephone call from our informants in London, whom I had already been in contact with. Everything appears to confirm that Whitelands is what he says he is: a paintings expert. He has published articles and is well respected in his field. Even though he studied at Cambridge, he is not a queer or a Communist. He has not had any contacts with fascist or other groups, and until now has been apolitical. He has no personal fortune. In recent years he has been cuckolding a Foreign Office official. He has a small private income, but what he earns from his work wouldn’t keep him in peanuts.”

“That could explain why he came to Spain,” the director-general suggests. “Money is important.”

“Yes, that’s a possibility,” the lieutenant-colonel agrees. “He’s been seen coming and going from the Duke of La Igualada’s place.”

Mallol grunts and mutters:

“Can that old fogey be up to something?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. Primo de Rivera often visits the house.”

“That will be for the girl.”

“Bah! That won’t get anywhere. Although, of course, you never know with women . . . All we know for sure is that last night the Englishman was out on the town with Primo and his henchmen at the Happy Whale.”

Don Alonso Mallol waves his hand in the air. He is tired, and wants to settle the matter without more ado:

“Don’t let him out of your sight,” he says, by way of dismissing them.

A pale sun is shining in through the window. The muffled sounds of the city rise from the streets. At that same moment, oblivious to the scrutiny he is under, Anthony Whitelands is breakfasting on a milky coffee with fried pastries in a bar in Plaza Santa Ana. He skims through the daily press with a worried look. He has been infected by the uncertainty all around him, but as a true Englishman cannot understand why the media is silent about matters that have the country on tenterhooks. He is aware of the strict censorship imposed by the government, because the newspapers themselves devote front-page headlines to the attacks of which they are victims, but he cannot understand the point of a measure which weakens the government and produces the opposite effect to the one desired. Because of the lack of proper information, endless rumors are flying around, which are transformed and exaggerated out of all proportion by the popular imagination. Everybody claims to have sensational news on good authority, and to know important secrets which they have not the slightest compunction about broadcasting to the four winds. The channels through which this kind of information circulates are as varied as they are complex, since there are no bounds to Spaniards’ sociability. With great assurance, in taverns and cafés, offices and shops, on public transport and in courtyards, ordinary people discuss, dissect and hotly debate with friends and complete strangers the present and future of the turbulent Spanish reality. The same occurs at higher levels of society, but here there is an extra element of confusion, because political sympathies vie with family circles, sports clubs or whatever cultural or leisure center these people belong to. The dyed-in-the-wool right-winger and his equally convinced left-wing counterpart may meet at a bullfight or a soccer match and exchange news and gossip about such and such a topic, such and such a person or such and such a scandal; and the same happens at the Ateneo, when leaving church or at the Masonic lodge. By all these means, Spaniards in general and the inhabitants of Madrid in particular receive information that may be either true or false, without being able to distinguish in any way between the two.

Anthony Whitelands has a vague notion of all this, but although his knowledge of Spain is profound in some areas, it is very superficial in others, so that he easily becomes lost in the labyrinth of facts, conjectures and fantasy in which he finds himself immersed. Above and beyond this, he is also preoccupied with his own situation.

The editorial in the A.B.C. newspaper denounces the government’s lack of response to the acts of vandalism committed in churches and convents. How much personal misfortune and how much damage to the nation’s artistic heritage will we have to suffer before Señor Azaña deigns to take decisive action against those responsible? Are we going to have to wait for the rabble to show its hatred of other sectors of society by burning innocent people’s houses with them inside?

This possibility suddenly leaves Anthony gasping for breath. In the current situation, he would not rule out an attack on the duke’s mansion. If that happened, what would become of the painting which at that very moment is in the basement awaiting his verdict?