21

By common accord between all those concerned, the miseries that the vicissitudes of history, misrule of the nation, and conflicts between opposing groups had heaped on Spain in 1936 were momentarily suspended at the aperitif hour. The elegant cafés of the Salamanca neighborhood were overflowing with upper-class customers, as were the greasy bars in Lavapiés with shop assistants and workmen. As Anthony Whitelands made his way back to his hotel, his mind was on a variety of matters. For the first time since his arrival in Madrid, he was happy with the way things were going. In his opinion, the recent conversation with Paquita in the Michigan had taken a favorable turn: she had dropped both her mocking attitude and the mystery of their previous encounters; he had been able to express his points of view without any vanity or nervousness—in short, without committing any error he would now have to regret, and without making a fool of himself as he had done before. The future of their relationship might still be unpredictable, but at least it would be more normal. The opportunity she was offering him that same evening was proof of this change of attitude: not only was it a demonstration of trust, but also perhaps an invitation to take their relationship into another area, permission to enter into direct competition with a rival whose superiority it would be childish not to recognize, but whom it was not impossible to get the better of with a little ingenuity and patience. However, all this was relegated to the back of Anthony’s mind in comparison with the incredible importance of the Velázquez painting he had become involved with. This excited him to such a degree that it was only his naturally reserved character and strict upbringing that prevented him from behaving like a lunatic in the middle of the street. He was striding along, waving his arms about and, without realizing it, muttering phrases or random words that attracted the attention of several passers-by. He was eager to reach his hotel, where he intended to write down the maelstrom of ideas whirling around in his head, partly in order to sort them out, and partly to relieve his overflowing brain. With this in mind, and although he felt the pangs of hunger, he ignored the siren calls from the restaurants and cheap cafés he was racing past.

Barely a hundred yards from his goal, he heard a voice behind him. When he turned around, he found himself face-to-face with Higinio Zamora Zamorano.

“What!” he exclaimed. “You again! Isn’t this one coincidence too many?”

Higinio Zamora laughed and said:

“You’re right. It would be some coincidence if it were. But it isn’t: because I’ve just come from your hotel where I went to find you, and the gentleman in reception told me you weren’t there.”

“I see. And may I know why you came looking for me?”

“You may, you may. In particular, since your humble servant here was the one who came to see you. But it’s not something to be talked about in a minute standing here: it deserves a good stew and a bottle of Valdepeñas.”

“I’m sorry,” said Anthony. “I can’t allow myself a meal today.”

“Oh, my dear sir, I fear I did not properly convey my meaning. I’m doing the inviting.”

“It’s not that. I have work to do, and need to get back to the hotel at once.”

Higinio Zamora’s eyes smiled, but his face was still serious.

“Well, if you really have to work, don’t go to the hotel. There’s a fellow in the lobby who has the look of a policeman, and when I asked after you, he looked me up and down from top to toe. From which your humble servant deduces that he’s waiting for you. Could that be so?”

“It could.”

“In that case, give him the slip and let’s go and have that stew. I can see your mouth watering the moment I mention it. And don’t be worried about me being indiscreet: I won’t ask why they’re keeping an eye on you.”

Anthony did not have to think it over for long: whether the person waiting for him in the hotel was Captain Coscolluela or someone else sent by Lieutenant-Colonel Marranón, it would be wise not to show up: he had too much to hide. And if they took him off again to the offices in the National Security Headquarters, he would have to forget about his appointment with Paquita, and the opportunity to go with her to José Antonio Primo de Rivera’s meeting.

“All right, let’s go, but I insist on paying my share.”

“That’s not a Spanish custom,” said the other man, “but I accepts.”

Leaving the hotel behind, they walked for a while until Higinio Zamora went into an eating house. The Englishman followed him. There were quite a few people inside, but in the monastic silence the only sound was the clatter of plates. The waiter pointed them up toward the mezzanine, where they sat at an empty table. It was soon covered with dishes filled with cabbage, chick peas, pork fat, sausage, potatoes and black pudding. A fat woman wearing a grimy apron ladled soup into earthenware bowls, and a boy brought them wine. Serving himself some of everything, Higinio Zamora began to tuck in with great gusto. When Anthony saw his companion was not ready to talk to him, he did the same. The food was delicious and, although nothing special, the wine went well with it, so that their cheeks were soon crammed and their eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Higinio Zamora chose this moment to lay his knife and fork on his plate, wipe his mouth with a care that betrayed a certain degree of good manners, and say:

“First and foremost, allow me to repeat, even if this is the first time I am mentioning it, that nothing of what I am about to say to you is out of self-interest toward me or my person.”

When Anthony waved vaguely to show he was listening, his companion went on:

“I’ll speak to you in all confidence. As far as I can tell, you may be a lord or the King of England, but here you’re more lonely and lost than a reconnaissance plane. Don’t go getting offended—I mean it as a friend, like.”

“I’m not offended, but I have no idea what you mean. What I am is my own business.”

“Perhaps in your own country. Here everything belongs to everyone. If someone is happy, everyone celebrates; if they’re sad, we all share their sadness.”

“What if someone wants to be left in peace and not have anyone interfering?”

“Then they’re in trouble. Look, I’ll tell you how things really are: whatever they say, this is not a poor country. This is a country of poor people. I don’t know if you can see the difference. In a poor country, everyone gets by as best they can with whatever they have. But not in Spain. Here what people have is important, but more important still is what their neighbor has or no longer has. But that is not my point. My point is your personal situation, not the money you may have. And that’s where you are suffering. You may fool everyone else by looking like an antiquated dummy and with manners to match, but you don’t fool Higinio Zamora Zamorano ’ere. I’ve seen you for what you are. I mean with regard to La Toñina. Don’t be afraid, I’ve no intention of blackmailing you—I’ve already told you it’s all the same to me. Besides, you’ve done nothing wrong; quite the contrary. What I am talking about here is that poor family: Justa, Toñina and that poor fatherless mite, the child of sin. You heard what Justa said: they’re all alone in the world. Well now, the girl is willing, clean, one of the most discreet persons I know and nobody’s fool. And yet, if something isn’t done, she faces a bitter future. You on the other hand have got fine prospects, but your present situation is a mess. Chance has thrown the two of you together. Do you catch my drift?”

Anthony, who until now had been only half listening and had carried on eating, laid down his knife and fork, stared at his companion and said:

“Are you trying to sell me the girl, Señor Zamorano?”

The other man put down his glass of wine and raised his eyes to the ceiling with the resigned expression of an adult trying to explain something very simple to a not very bright child.

“Oh!” he said. “Buying and selling! As if there was nothing in the world but buying and selling! You people see everything like salesmen. Before we had to argue about how our meal would be paid for, and now this. No, señor, Toñina is not for sale. She is not like that. If her father was alive, there is no way she would be doing what she does. She would have studied, she would be a respectable young woman; she might even have gone to university. But her poor father met a sad end in a good cause, and society abandoned the two of them. They have had to try everything to avoid starving to death. Does that make the poor girl secondhand goods?”

“I never said anything of the kind. You’re the one insisting.”

“And you’re the one who doesn’t understand a thing,” Higinio Zamora replied gently, almost affectionately. “That’s the problem. Not the problem between you and me, but between Spain and the world: you don’t understand the proletariat. You see them as uneducated, as people who can’t talk properly and always have a threatening scowl on their faces, and so you think: God help me! If the workers ask for something, if they demand a right or a pay increase, you get frightened. They’re going to strip the shirt off my back, you tell each other. Of course, there’s some truth in that. But it’s not just money the proletariat wants. They want justice and respect. And as long as you lot can’t understand that, there’ll be no harmony or social peace, and the violence will only increase. You’ve seen what is going on in Madrid and the rest of the country: the workers are burning churches. I don’t agree with it, but tell me this: who built them?”

Pausing to down another glass of wine, he continued in the same didactic tone:

“If the workers rebel, instead of asking the reason, they get the police let loose on them. If that’s not enough, it’s the Civil Guard, and if necessary the legionary troops. With arguments like them to back you up, you have no need to be right. Remember what happened in Asturias. But the proletariat has one thing on its side: it is never-ending. Look around you and listen to the voice of the people: it thinks the time is ripe and knows it won’t get another opportunity, so the revolution is bound to break out. When the Republic was declared in 1931, everyone said: About time, that’s the end of injustice. That was years ago, and today everything is the same: the rich are still just as rich, the poor just as poor. And if anyone complains, wham! with the billy club, and stand up straight! Either the workers seize wealth and power by force or there’ll be no worthwhile changes here. You’ve seen what’s happened in Russia. Is that paradise on earth? I couldn’t say, but at least in Russia they’ve got rid of all this nonsense.”

He fell silent once more and glanced around to see if there was any reaction to his speech. Seeing that the customers at the adjoining tables were carrying on eating unconcernedly, he himself attacked the rest of his stew with a ferocity that had been absent from his rant. The Englishman took advantage to say slyly:

“And the Bolshevik revolution will not take place if I set Toñina up in an apartment?”

“Very funny,” replied Higinio Zamora, rather hurt by Anthony’s insinuation but determined to stay cheerful. “I see you didn’t understand me. Not just when I was talking about the situation, but when I explained all the rest. But look, we all know no one can stop the course of history: neither you nor I can do anything on that score. What we can do is sort out that poor young girl’s problem. I’ll be honest with you: that’s the only thing I’m worried about, and I don’t know what to do. I feel really bad about it. I promised to look after that family, but I haven’t managed to do a thing. When it comes down to it, Justa has lived her life. But, for the love of God, that poor girl has never known anything but humiliation and hardship.”

His voice quavered, and tears welled up in his eyes. Thanks to his vague resemblance to Velázquez’s Menippus, Anthony had arbitrarily attributed to him the intellectual characteristics of the legendary philosopher of antiquity. Now, faced with this sudden display of sentimentality, he felt far more awkward than he had a moment earlier when his companion seemed to be trying to blame him for the Bolshevik triumph.

“Control yourself,” he whispered. “Someone might hear you.”

“I couldn’t care less. They can’t arrest anyone for crying. And I’m sorry to go on so, but whenever I think of that poor unfortunat  . The life she lives is indescribable. And the future awaiting her is beyond words.”

“Well, come the revolution, perhaps things will be sorted out for her.”

“Ha! I said the revolution was bound to break out, not that it would triumph. On the contrary, with things as they are, at the first sign of trouble they’ll bring the big guns out onto the streets. And if they’re the ones who win, everything will be far worse than it is now. That’s what I’m most afraid of.”

Anthony sneaked a look at his watch. They had finished the stew, and he needed to hurry if he was to return to his hotel and get to his appointment on time.

“I can understand your frustration,” he said, trying to adopt a conciliatory tone, “but the solution you are seeking is not in my power. I’m a foreigner, I’m only visiting, and I’ll be going back to my own country in a few days.”

Higinio Zamora dried his tears and looked at the Englishman with renewed interest.

“Bah,” he said forcefully, “we can worry about the details when the time comes. I mean the fact that you’re leaving isn’t an obstacle, far from it. It would be good to get her out of Spain. In England that girl would be in her element. She has it in her to be a respectable young lady; besides which, she is hardworking, honest and very grateful. She never forgets a favor. Yes, I know,” he went on solemnly, as though this aspect disturbed him far more than Anthony’s evident astonishment, “I know a plan like this contradicts Marxist principles. A worker should not look for his own salvation but must help save all his class. But I’m convinced that if Marx had known the girl he would have made an exception. As for the child, just think: with an English education, plus a Spaniard’s innate bravery—why, he could become a British Army officer in India, no less.”

There was no way he was going to convince Anthony. The Englishman had been taught to show complete respect for any person, whatever their origin or social status, but this same principle was based on a rigid view of social rank, so that his companion’s pretensions seemed to him not only absurd but intolerable. To Anthony, Higinio Zamora’s ramblings were sheer madness. However, since Higinio had remained calm and apparently had nothing to gain personally from the matter, the Englishman decided not to pay too much attention to what he had said. Perhaps, he thought, the poor man needed to get it off his chest. The important thing now was to bring their conversation to a close, and the only way for him to do that was to adopt a sympathetic attitude and to agree with him in the vaguest terms possible.

“Rest assured I will try to think of a viable way of fulfilling your wishes without prejudicing my own situation,” he said pompously, “but now I really must take my leave. And I’ve had second thoughts about what we agreed at the start: I’ll pay.”

This suggestion, which he had hoped would favorably dispose Higinio to him, produced the exact opposite effect. The Spaniard rejected his offer and insisted on paying for everything—especially as he had been so bold as to ask such a huge favor and had received such a positive response. Fearing fresh complications, Anthony accepted, and before the other man could settle the bill he stood up, shook hands with him and rushed out of the restaurant. In the street, he set off for his hotel as quickly as his bloated stomach would allow. At a safe distance from his goal, he halted, then renewed his approach with great care, just in case the man Higinio Zamora had mentioned was still on guard outside. Finally, when he could not see anyone suspicious close to the hotel, he almost ran the last few yards, took his key from the receptionist and shut himself in his room.

The atmosphere inside was conducive to work: the stove gave off a pleasant heat, while the oblique rays of the pale setting sun filtered in through the window. Anthony took out his notebook and pen, sat at the desk and got ready to write down the observations that had been delayed by his meeting and the enormous meal. However, almost at once he folded his arms across the desk, laid his head on them and fell asleep. Without being aware that he was sleeping, he dreamt that he could hear the sound of a large crowd singing the “Internationale” down in the street. The window framed a red sky into which thick columns of black smoke were rising. It was obvious that the revolution had broken out, and that therefore his life was in great danger. With the implacable logic of dreams, he saw himself dragged along by the whirlwind of events. There’s no escape, he thought. They’ll force me to dress in rags, let my beard grow, and shout: all power to the soviets! This vision produced a spasm of physical anxiety: he began to sweat profusely and his stomach started to burn. He wanted to run away, but his muscles refused to obey the orders from his brain. He awoke with a sour taste in his mouth, and the great fear that he had slept beyond the time for his appointment. His watch reassured him that this was not the case. Putting away his book and pen once more, he splashed water on his face and hair to at least tidy up his outward appearance, put on his coat and hat and left his room and the hotel as quickly as he could. The lamplighter was just lighting the lamps in the square.

As he ran toward his meeting point, he recalled the details of his nightmare. He reflected that Higinio Zamora’s prophecies over their meal must have impressed him more than he had realized at the time, when he had merely thought them outlandish. Perhaps I’m walking on the edge of the abyss, he told himself.