The Exile (29 page)

‘No one's doing that, boss. Christ, all I said was that I wanted to kill my wife.'

Never one for domestic issues, Guzmán got to his feet. ‘I'm off for a piss.' He saw the barman by the door and walked towards him, a little unsteady. ‘Where's the toilet?'

‘The pissing rock is out there.' The barman stepped back to let Guzmán pass. ‘You'll see it across the track.' He called after him as he reached the door. ‘And don't get shy if the whore's watching. She's seen it all before.'

The pissing rock was a huge outcrop of sheer stone, uncovered when part of the hillside had collapsed at some time during the last millennium or so. It was clearly in heavy use, judging by the smell and the soggy texture of the soil. Guzmán noticed a sign nailed to a post.

FOR REASONS OF HYGIENE, DO NOT URINATE HERE

He shook his head. Living in the countryside was probably the worst punishment that could be inflicted on a man. To his right two goatherds, or possibly shepherds for all he cared, were talking about El Lobo as they pissed.

‘Say what you like,' the first said, ‘but El Lobo's had the army, the
guardia
and the police after him and no one's got near him. He vanishes like a ghost.'

‘They say he was a Republican general,' the other said. ‘If he can do it...'

‘I know, imagine if there were ten like him. Things would start to change then.'

Guzmán buttoned up and walked back to the cave. To one side of the door he noticed a young woman, tall and slim, her brown hair tied back, revealing a pale face with dark tired eyes. Busy watching her, he stumbled and fell. When he got back to his feet, the woman was gone.

Inside the cave, he negotiated his way through the increasingly drunken clientele and sank back into his chair. ‘I just heard two peasants idolising El Lobo,' he said to Ochoa. Exactly what Gutiérrez was afraid of.'

Ochoa stared into his tankard, struggling to focus. ‘That's not good.'

‘We should get back and see if the squad have found anything,' Guzmán said. As he tried to stand up, he looked up. ‘Looks like the trouble's starting.'

A group of men were standing in the doorway. Plumed hats, spiked Prussian helmets and various other instances of eccentric headwear. A tall thin man led them into the bar. He had a narrow, chiselled face framed by long dark hair tied back with a ribbon. His big knee boots emphasised the piratical look as did his silk waistcoat and blue frock coat.

‘I am Etienne Çubiry,' the young man announced.

The cave fell silent. Drovers and shepherds backed away, suddenly nervous.

‘I'm looking for one of our men,' Etienne said. ‘He should have met us up on the ridge this morning.' He looked round the smoky cave. ‘Anyone seen him? No? He held up a coin. Guzmán couldn't see what it was, but it wasn't gold. Clearly Çubiry was a cheapskate.

‘Any strangers passed through in the last two days?' Etienne's face darkened with frustration. ‘I want to find my man,' he said, raising his voice. ‘Someone must have seen him.'

That was unlikely, Guzmán thought, since he was at the bottom of the shaft in the mountain, keeping the American company. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the comforting weight of the Browning beneath his jacket. He was starting to feel irritated by the young Çubiry's behaviour. Despite his swagger, there was nothing brave about him – Guzmán saw that in his eyes and heard it in his voice. Etienne was a coward. The same couldn't be said for the three men standing behind him. Though their clothing was every bit as bizarre as Etienne's, they looked harder and more experienced. If things got rough, Guzmán decided to kill them first. Cheered by the thought of violence, he folded his arms across his chest.

Etienne saw the movement and stared at Guzmán. ‘Do I know you,
monsieur
?'

Guzmán thumbed back the hammer of the Browning.

OROITZ 1954, LAUBURU FARM

Begoña put the tray of newly baked loaves on the window ledge to cool. Outside, she saw Nieves watching the clouds over the mountains and went to join her.

Nieves turned as she heard her aunt approaching. ‘The weather's about to change.'

‘It's going to be a hard winter, that's for sure,' Begoña agreed. ‘There'll be snow before long.' She looked at the sky again. ‘I think this winter could be as bad as nineteen thirty-nine, maybe worse.
Dios mio
, that was cold.'

‘Perhaps you should invite Comandante Guzmán to spend the winter with you?' Nieves said with a cheeky smile. ‘You could be snowed in with him.' She saw Begoña's colour rise. ‘I don't know why you're blushing. You let him see you naked.'

‘That's not true,' Begoña muttered. ‘I didn't know he was going to ride into the glade.' She fidgeted with her shawl. ‘He could just as easily have been watching you.'

‘But I'm not the one who's been trying to attract him,' said Nieves. ‘You've been lighting a candle at midnight. You're casting a spell.'

‘Be quiet. It's only—'

‘A love charm.'

‘A bit of fun,' Begoña said, regaining her composure. ‘
Nada más
.'

Nieves linked arms with her as they walked back through the lilac bushes to the house. ‘It has to be done for a full seven days, you know, otherwise it brings bad luck.'

‘I've done it before,' Begoña said, with a vague shrug. ‘It didn't work then either.'

‘
Mira
, look up on the ridge,' Nieves said, pointing. ‘To the left of Mari's Peak. It's the
guardia
. Perhaps Señor Guzmán's with them.'

Begoña saw the line of horsemen moving along the ridge in single file. Behind them, trails of bluish smoke curled into the wind. ‘They're burning the old cattle byres. Another winter and most would have fallen down anyway.' She looked again at the horsemen. A long way behind the civil guards, she saw the silhouette of another rider moving more slowly, following rather than trying to catch up. At such a distance it was impossible to tell if it was Comandante Guzmán. Nieves called to her from the house and Begoña turned away from the mountain and went indoors.

OROITZ 1954, TABERNA LA CUEVA

‘No.' Guzmán's curt answer hung in the sudden quiet.

‘Then I want to know who you are,
mon ami
,' Etienne Çubiry said. ‘The Çubiry are friends to all. That's right, no?' He looked at the crowd clustered by the bar. Their silence did nothing to suggest they agreed. ‘You don't want to upset me,' Etienne added.

‘Don't I?' Guzmán returned the Frenchman's stare until he looked away.

‘You're starting to annoy me,
monsieur
,' Etienne said, resting his hand on the pommel of the cavalry sabre hanging from his belt.

Guzmán shrugged. He had thirteen bullets in the Browning. Fuck swords.

Ochoa raised his tankard to his mouth. ‘Low profile,' he whispered.

He was right, Guzmán thought grudgingly. A fatal confrontation with the Çubiry wasn't in Gutierrez's orders. Which was a shame, because Etienne Çubiry was just asking for a bullet.

‘We sell whisky,' Guzmán said, improvising. ‘Scotch whisky.'

‘Ah, businessmen?' Etienne said, less agitated now. ‘What kind of whisky?'

‘Single malt, aged in sherry casks,' Guzmán said, recalling the drinks at one of Franco's receptions. ‘Stolen direct from Scotland.'

‘We could do business,' Etienne said. ‘Come see us in St Jean.'

‘I'll do that.' Guzmán nodded.

Etienne turned to the barman. ‘Hey, Iñaki, better not let your children outside today.'

‘Why's that?' Iñaki asked.

‘The Israelites are loose.' Etienne shook his hands in mock fear. ‘After all these years, the crazy people are coming down from the peak.'

‘So what?' Iñaki shrugged. ‘They're harmless.'

‘Don't say you weren't warned.' Etienne turned to the men behind him. ‘
Allons-y
.'

‘Good luck finding your friend,' Guzmán called.

Etienne smiled. ‘Maybe he's been delayed by a lady.
Agur
, gentlemen.' He swept off his hat in an elaborate gesture of farewell and left the cave, followed by his men.

With the Çubiry gone, the tension eased and the barman wandered among the customers with a large earthenware pitcher, topping up their drinks. Guzmán watched the yellow liquid splash into his battered tankard. ‘What was that the Frenchman said about Israelites?'

‘They're a bunch of lunatics who've lived wild since the war,' the barman said. ‘A shell hit the old asylum and blew a hole in the wall. The madmen escaped and took to the hills. That's why we call them the Israelites – lost in the wilderness and all that. They ended up at the abandoned convent near Mari's Peak.'

‘And they don't usually leave the convent?'

‘First I've heard of it. Why don't you ask them yourself if you're so interested?'

‘I might just do that.' Guzmán got to his feet, somewhat unsteadily. He laid a hundred peseta note on the counter and waved away the change. As he stumbled to the door, pulling Ochoa along by his lapels, he heard the barman's voice behind him.

‘Pair of lightweights. They could have stayed here till Easter for a hundred pesetas.'

The squad was waiting near Mari's Cave. From a distance, the troopers looked like strange birds, dark and angular in their oilskin capes. In front of them sat three wild-looking characters, their wrists bound with rope, glancing nervously at their captors.

‘Who are these ugly bastards?' Guzmán asked as he got down from his horse.

‘Israelites,
mi Comandante
, madmen from the mountain. The others got away.'

The prisoners were not a pretty sight. Weather-beaten faces, lined and tanned like ancient leather, matted shoulder-length hair, long stained beards, their clothes in rags. Boots held on by lengths of torn cloth. All were deep in conversation, though since it was with themselves, it was hard to understand.

‘Any of you got a name?' Guzmán asked.

‘Answer the
comandante
.' Ruiz poked the nearest lunatic with the butt of his rifle.

The madman stared at Guzmán through a fringe of greasy hair and grinned, exposing a row of rotten teeth. ‘At first wolf says keep quiet, see nothing and you can stay. Now he says Israelites must go. We ask him let us stay, but no, he says, the wolf lives here now.' He paused, disturbed by his own incoherent rant. ‘Leave now. Wolf eats Israelites.'

‘You crazy
badulaque
.' Ruiz gave the man another blow with his rifle.

‘Let him be,' Guzmán said. ‘Has anyone got some food?'

One of the troopers produced a length of chorizo from his saddlebag. Guzmán cut a slice and held it up in front of the madmen. ‘Hungry?'

Their reply was like a pack of rabid dogs.

Guzmán handed the chorizo to the nearest
guardia
. ‘Cut them a few pieces of that.'

‘But
Comandante
,' the trooper protested, ‘they've got no teeth.'

‘Then they can suck it,' Guzmán said. ‘It'll will keep them going until the nineteen sixties.' He strode away towards the cave, calling for Ochoa to follow.

‘I want you to take the squad back to the
cuartel
,' he said, keeping his voice low.

Ochoa nodded. ‘What shall I do with them?'

‘Light the fire, sit round it and sing a few songs. I don't know, Corporal. Improvise.'

‘And what will you be doing,
Comandante
?'

Guzmán was torn between explaining his plan to Ochoa and telling him to mind his own fucking business.

‘Mind your own fucking business.'

‘Very good, sir.'

‘When you ride down towards the valley, take it slowly,' Guzmán said. ‘I want anyone watching to think we're all on our way back to the
cuartel
.'

‘Those lunatics said they were driven out by wolves,' Ochoa said. ‘What if there's a pack of them up there?'

‘That madman didn't say wolves.' Guzmán smiled. ‘He said
the
wolf. El Lobo.'

OROITZ 1954, ABADÍA DEL INMACULADO CORAZÓN DE MARÍA

It was hard work climbing such steep ground, weighed down by his haversack and rifle. Looking up the escarpment, Guzmán saw the grey stone convent perched on an outcrop of ancient rock. High above it, Mari's Peak rose up into the sky. As he looked up, something wet hit his face and he wiped it away. When it happened again, he realised this was something he had not factored into his sudden decision to inspect the nunnery. It was starting to rain.

As he climbed, the grim outline of the convent blurred as curtains of rain swept over the escarpment. Nearer now, he saw the broken ridgeline where part of the roof had collapsed. It was easy to imagine the dreary existence of the nuns who once lived here, beset by endless rain and bitter snows. Even bolstered by their faith, such a life must have rapidly lost its attraction. Isolated in the ceaseless cold, they must surely have wondered if God had abandoned them. Probably they realised he had, since they were long gone, their place taken by lunatics. That was appropriate, he thought. And now even the madmen had gone.

Which was not to say the convent was empty, he realised, peering through the rain at the pale glow of a lantern in one of the windows.

14

MADRID, JULY 2010, CALLE DE MIRA EL RÍO BAJA

It was a quarter to ten as Galíndez turned off the Ronda de Toledo into a fractious line of traffic, horns blaring as exasperated drivers looked for parking spaces near the flea market. She drummed her fingers on the wheel, increasingly impatient as the temperature inside the car rose, her discomfort made worse by the smart black suit. Still, it would be worthwhile if Ochoa was so taken with her that he wanted to share a few reminiscences about the old days.