The Exile (17 page)

‘I may not kill him,' Guzmán lied. ‘I might arrest him.'

‘But then he'd try to escape and you'd shoot him. The
guardia
do that, I've heard.'

‘You're very knowledgeable about police procedures.' He took a sip of cider and smacked his lips. ‘That's good stuff.'

‘Listen,' Nieves leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘you know when you called Begoña “señora”?' Guzmán nodded, taking another large swig of cider.

‘Well, she isn't.' Nieves glanced towards the door to make sure she couldn't be overheard. ‘She's Señorita Arestigui, so there's no husband to catch you looking at her arse as you did a few minutes ago, though you should be more subtle. She'd be shocked.' A gentle laugh. ‘She's not very worldly about men, I'm afraid.'

‘And you are?' He laughed. ‘Keep that up and it'll be your arse that gets kicked.'

‘What are you talking about?' Begoña asked, as she put Guzmán's plate on the table. His mouth watered as he saw the large slice of rare beef smothered in soft red peppers and garlic.

‘Señor Guzmán has a steady job in the
policía
,' Nieves said. ‘He probably earns at least five hundred pesetas a week and he likes your cooking.'

‘Is she trying to marry me off?' Begoña laughed, blushing. ‘She interviews any man who comes near this farm to see if he's a potential suitor.'

‘If I left it to you, we'd never know how suitable they were,' Nieves said. ‘I'll get Señor Guzmán's coffee.'

‘She has a very inquisitive nature,' Begoña said after Nieves had gone.

‘She'd make a good policeman,' Guzmán said. ‘Though it's not a job for women.'

‘The very idea.' Begoña smiled. They both laughed at the absurdity of it.

‘So her mother died in the war?'

Begoña nodded. ‘My sister was the black sheep of the family, I'm afraid. She fought for the Republic and unfortunately she died for it.'

‘And you brought her up after Arantxa died?'

Begoña stared at him. ‘How do you know my sister's name,
comandante
?'

A sudden, strained silence.

Guzmán shrugged. ‘Nieves mentioned it yesterday, when we met.'

‘Of course.' Begoña nodded. ‘She never knew her, poor thing. She's a good girl. Usually, anyway.'

‘Usually?' Guzmán smiled.

‘It's nothing really, Señor Guzmán. ‘But she has a temper. At school, one of the boys bullied her. She waited for him on the way home from school and broke his nose.'

‘Good for her.' Guzmán nodded approvingly. ‘How old is she? I find it hard to tell a young woman's age these days.'

‘I was born on the twenty-fourth of March 1936,' Nieves said. ‘So I'm eighteen. Are you investigating me, Señor Guzmán?'

Guzmán turned, surprised to find her standing behind him with his coffee. He'd never heard a sound as she'd come in. ‘Not at all, señorita, unless you're a criminal?'

She stared at him, narrowing black eyes. ‘I speak Basque. That's criminal, isn't it?'

Begoña looked at her niece in horror. ‘For heaven's sake, Nieves. Be quiet.'

‘Just don't speak it in front of me,' Guzmán muttered. He changed the subject. ‘Didn't you tell me Sargento León objected to you practising witchcraft?'

‘Among other things.' Nieves nodded. ‘Does that bother you as well, Señor Guzmán?'

‘Not at all, I have an interest in the occult. My
comisaría
was built on the site of an old convent used by the Inquisition.'

‘How horrible,' said Begoña.

Nieves leaned forward, suddenly interested. ‘Is it haunted?'

He nodded. ‘Possibly, I haven't explored all of the vaults yet, but I've heard things.'

‘Vaults?' Nieves was wide-eyed. ‘Are the instruments of torture still there?'

‘They are,' Guzmán said with a certain pride. ‘Though it's all sealed up. Only a few people go down there.'
And I'm the only one who comes back up.
‘They burned the nuns at the stake,' he added. ‘Apparently they were worshipping God, but it was the wrong god. That was when the Inquisition stepped in.'

‘I'll bet the vaults are haunted.'

‘What on earth interests you in such things, señor?' Begoña asked.

‘I like to think there are things we don't know about, knowledge that's secret and out of the control of ordinary mortals.'

‘You mean a higher power?' Begoña asked. ‘You should go to church more often.'

‘I went through the war hearing people beg God to help them.' Guzmán shrugged. ‘Most of them died. They'd have been better asking a witch for a charm. That's what I did.'

‘Some people think we're witches.' Nieves was sitting in shadow, her eyes so dark both iris and pupil appeared to merge.

‘Really?' Guzmán sipped his coffee. ‘And are you?'

‘
Hombre
, if we were witches, there'd be no
guardia civil
in that
cuartel
, just a few toads in three-cornered hats,' Begoña scoffed. ‘We respect the old ways.'

‘And what do the old ways tell you?'

‘They tell us about how to live in our land,' Nieves cut in. ‘About the gods and creatures that lurk in the valleys. They show us the way time is carved into the landscape.' She stared at him, her dark eyes luminous. ‘Do you realise, Señor Guzmán, that we call things by the names they were given when they were first created?'

‘And that isn't witchcraft,' Begoña added, ‘no matter what the Spanish think.'

‘Stop saying “Spanish” like that, as if it's an insult,' Guzmán said. ‘Officially, you're Spanish.'

‘We know,' Nieves said. ‘We've seen the posters on the walls in San Sebastián: “If you're Spanish, speak Spanish.”' She grinned. ‘So we speak Basque.'

‘You can see why I worry about her, can't you?' said Begoña. ‘She can't keep her mouth shut. I keep telling her there's no such thing as free speech in Spain.'

‘Absolutely,' Guzmán agreed, thinking Begoña seemed a sensible woman.

‘Are you a detective, Señor Guzmán?' Nieves asked, suddenly animated. ‘I read a book about a detective.
Sherlock Holmes y el Sabueso de los Baskerville.
'

‘In a way I am,' Guzmán said. ‘I work in the
Brigada Especial
. We find missing people.'

‘I'm sure the
comandante
doesn't have much time for reading.' Begoña gave him a sharp look. ‘Not with all those people he has to find.'

‘Señor Guzmán is a friend of Franco,' Nieves said. ‘He has a pass signed by him.'

‘Half the country are policemen these days,' Begoña muttered. ‘And all of them are friends of Franco. He doesn't stay in power because we love him.'

There was a sudden silence. Guzmán was astonished by her outburst. If she'd said that in his
comisaría
he would have knocked her to the floor. Begoña looked down, her cheeks glowing.

He broke the silence. ‘I hear General Torres has a hunting lodge out here?'

‘That's right, it's along the old road,' Begoña said. ‘We do some work for his company from time to time. Farmers like us don't earn much, so we make a bit extra by making souvenir paperweights. The Torres Company buy them from us and sell them in French seaside towns.'

‘Although it's hardly worth the effort,' Nieves added. ‘Torres don't pay well.'

‘We do all right.' Begoña turned to Guzmán. ‘General Torres's daughter collects the figures every month. She has her own car, can you imagine that?'

He had imagined a great deal about Señorita Torres, though he refrained from saying so.

‘We leave the figures in a sack by the bridge,' Nieves cut in. ‘And she leaves the money there in a tin. That way she doesn't have to talk to us.'

‘Why don't you talk to her?'

Begoña laughed, embarrassed. ‘She's used to mixing with people in high society. She wouldn't have much to say to the likes of us, we're just peasants to her.'

‘And she mixes with the fascists,' Nieves added with an outraged expression. ‘I heard that Franco's her godfather.'

‘That's just a rumour,' Begoña said. She touched her hair, suddenly self-conscious. ‘She's very beautiful, you know, she looks like that American actress.' She looked at Nieves inquiringly. ‘
Como se llama esa rubia
?'

‘Graciela Kelly,' said Nieves. ‘We saw her in
Solo ante el Peligro
, remember? Gary Cooper was in it as well.'

‘Kelly? So that's how you say it?' Guzmán said. ‘You speak English then, señorita?'

‘Goodness, no,' Begoña said, flattered. ‘Just a few words I heard at the travelling cinema when it came to Oroitz.'

Guzmán remembered his mission. ‘I imagine you ladies know this region well?'

‘Better than most,' Begoña agreed. Or it might have been Nieves, he wasn't sure.

‘I need to take a patrol up onto the ridge. Is there an easy way up?'

Nieves looked at her aunt. Begoña shrugged. ‘That might work.'

‘What might work?' Guzmán looked at them, puzzled. ‘She didn't say anything.'

A faint light shimmered round them. Something to do with the lamp, he imagined.

‘La Escalera de Mari.'

He stared, unable to tell who was talking. ‘Who is this Mari?'

‘The goddess. She rules the storms, the land and what lies beneath.'

‘Sometimes she's half woman, half tree.'

‘Stop that,' Guzmán said, confused by their merging voices. ‘How do I get up there?'

The light around them faded.

‘It's a narrow ravine,' Nieves said. ‘It's the route the smugglers use. You follow the track from the valley up the slopes, and eventually you reach the cliffs below the ridge. Then, you either climb them or you go through Mari's Stair.'

‘Thanks, I'll try that.' Guzmán glanced at his watch. ‘I must go. I'll be in Oroitz for a few days so perhaps I'll see you again?'

Begoña smiled. ‘I do hope so, Señor Guzmán.'

Outside, he saw a straw doll nestling over the door, a safeguard against the evil eye.

‘I told you it would rain,' Begoña said as the first hesitant drops pattered on the leaves. In the distance, a faint rattle of gunfire rolled over the hillside. Nieves and Begoña looked at one another, uneasy. ‘
Dios mio
,' Begoña whispered, ‘it sounds just like the war.'

‘My corporal's giving the men some target practice,' he said. ‘Nothing to worry about.'

He walked along the path into the trees, then stopped and lit a cigarette, thinking about Nieves, the dark fire of her eyes, the gestures she made with her head.

All that was a long time ago.

He was seeing ghosts.

OROITZ 1954, TORRES PABELLÓN DE CAZA

The Buick turned a wooded bend and Guzmán saw the hunting lodge, a sombre half-timbered building with a red-tiled roof. On the first floor, a couple of windows had been opened and the white curtains rose and fell in the slight breeze. The windows downstairs were still shuttered, though a pile of expensive luggage near the front door suggested Magdalena and her father had arrived.

He parked by the gate and walked down the gravel path. A black Hispano Suiza was parked on the far side of the garden and nearby he saw Magdalena's bright red Pegaso. The latest model, he noticed, and paused to admire the sleek curves of a vehicle made for the racetrack.

As he turned to the front door, a sudden blast of the Pegaso's horn made him look back. Magdalena waved to him from the driver's seat. Her blonde hair was freshly styled, her clothes simple but very expensive; even he could tell that as he went to greet her, admiring the firm line of her calves as she slid from the low-slung roadster. ‘Did I surprise you? I was fiddling with the brake, that's why you didn't see me.'

‘It's a very pleasant surprise, señorita,' he said. As she came nearer, he noticed her delicate perfume and leaned closer.

‘What's the matter, Leo, do I smell?'

‘I'm not complaining. Your perfume is delightful, Señorita Torres.'

‘I'm so glad, because a bottle of this costs more than you get paid in a month.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘For God's sake, stop beating about the bush, will you?' Magdalena said, suddenly impatient. ‘Surely you don't really want to discuss perfume? The answer's yes.'

‘Really?' Guzmán moved closer. ‘What was the question?'

She sighed. ‘You were about to invite me to dinner tomorrow night.'

‘Of course I was. Where am I taking you?'

‘Casa Juanxto. It's the best restaurant in town. Shall we meet at the Hotel María Cristina at eight thirty?'

‘I look forward to it.'

She lowered her voice. ‘Father's in the house. Can you bear to say hello? It won't take long, I promise. I have to get back to town for a business meeting soon.'

He paused, on the verge of refusing. ‘Would you like me to?'

‘Yes, just say hello, will you? The worst he can do is insult you.'

‘It wouldn't be the first time,' Guzmán said, distracted by the movement of her skirt as she turned towards the front door.

Torres was old and feeble now, he thought. It was not worth wasting his anger on him, especially over something so long ago. But though the details were vague, the memory of his grievance against the general still burned, bright and insistent. Like a curse.

Magdalena led him down a long hall, decked out with a profusion of weapons, framed certificates and photographs. The typical decor of a military man. A door on the right was open and he followed her into a lounge decorated in various depressing shades of brown. A tan leather empire sofa faced the window.