The Exile (35 page)

Guzmán led his would-be informant to a corner of the tent, where seating was provided in the form of rough wooden crates. He balanced his plate on his knees while he tore open a piece of bread and filled it with roasted red peppers and garlic and several large chunks of seared meat. He held the sandwich in both hands as he raised it to his mouth, aware of the little Basque's avid attention.

‘I bought you a drink,' Guzmán growled. ‘Be grateful for what you've got.' He took a bite from the sandwich and chewed happily. ‘So, tell me about the Çubiry.'

Etxeberria was nervous. ‘They've lived here a long time, señor.' He paused. ‘I'm sorry, I don't know your name.'

‘That's right, you don't. Keep talking.'

‘The Çubiry family settled here after the war with Germany,' Etxeberria began, eyeing the lamb on Guzmán's plate. ‘I wonder if I could just have a small piece—'

‘Which war?' Guzmán interrupted. ‘The last one?' He took another slice of lamb and added it to his already well-filled sandwich.

Etxeberria shook his head.

‘
Hombre
, this isn't a radio quiz,' Guzmán grunted. ‘Be specific.'

‘The one before that. The Franco-Prussian war of 1870.'

‘Makes no difference.' Guzmán took another bite of sandwich. ‘The French always lose.' He reached for his brandy. ‘The meat here is excellent, I must say.'

‘I live in Spain,' Etxeberria muttered. ‘I've forgotten what meat tastes like.'

‘They say it's bad for you.' Guzmán gestured to the woman behind the counter to bring more drinks. ‘You'll be happier with
patxaran
.' He leaned forward menacingly. ‘Though you won't be getting that if you don't tell me something useful.'

‘Grandfather Çubiry was an ex-soldier, they say,' Etxeberria continued, anxious to please. ‘When he settled here, he turned his hand to crime: stealing horses, cattle rustling, smuggling – you name it, if it's criminal, they're involved in it.'

‘They sound like the Spanish government.' Guzmán paused to take their drinks from the ruddy-faced woman. ‘Don't stop,' he told Etxeberria, ‘but try to make it more interesting.'

‘They say the Çubiry have links with organised crime in Paris. They have more armed men in their chateau than the local gendarmes and the
guardia civil
avoid them when they cross the border into Spain as well.'

‘So who's the boss?' Guzmán asked. ‘Grandfather Çubiry?'

‘No, señor. He died long before the Civil War. Suicide, they say.'

‘Really? How did he kill himself?'

‘He stabbed himself in the back,' said Etxeberria. ‘The clan leader now is Grandfather Çubiry's son, Abarron. That was his son Etienne who you were talking to.'

Guzmán drank more brandy. ‘So really, you're saying they're an undesirable bunch?' He scowled at his would-be informant. ‘I have to tell you, that's hardly a revelation.'

‘They're dangerous,' Etxeberria muttered. ‘The Baron had his own sister killed.'

‘Now you're talking,' Guzmán mumbled through a mouthful of food. ‘Why?'

‘She wanted to marry a man from across the border, a schoolteacher,' Etxeberria went on. ‘Even though he was a fellow Basque, Baron Çubiry forbade the marriage.' He swallowed a mouthful of
patxaran
– without wincing, Guzmán noted – before carrying on. ‘She eloped and married him in Spain. They settled in San Sebastián and had three children. Fifteen years later the war broke out.'

‘Fucking hell, you should pay me to listen to this,' Guzmán snorted. ‘Get to the point.'

‘It was fifteen years after they'd married,' Etxeberria continued. ‘Baron Çubiry took advantage of the war to bribe some of the troops who'd captured San Sebastián. They shot his sister and two of the sons. The third son was injured but they left him alive so the schoolteacher would have a constant reminder of what he'd lost.' The little Basque sat back. ‘They say the Çubiry never forget an insult and no insult ever goes unpunished.'

Guzmán took a handful of change from his pocket and put it on top of a nearby crate. ‘Here, get yourself a plate of lamb.'

‘Would the gentleman be offended if I kept the cash instead?'

‘Not at all,' Guzmán said. ‘The gentleman would be most impressed by your self-restraint.' He got up and left the humid atmosphere of the tent, hearing excited voices rattling in Basque as people hurried towards the centre of the field.

‘Jesús is here,' someone shouted in Spanish.

Guzmán looked round, curious. He expected many things from these Basques, but the second coming certainly wasn't one of them.

A crowd had formed around the chalked circle where the contests took place. Inside the circle, Guzmán saw two lines of big logs arranged in parallel. He had no idea what they were about to do with those but at least it would be a change from stones.

The crowd was blocking Guzmán's view, but one thing was sure, whoever was about to take part in this contest wasn't popular with the Çubiry, judging from their jeers and catcalls. He looked over the rows of heads in front of him at the object of their derision, a giant of a man, a good half-metre taller than Guzmán and much broader and heavier. The giant looked at the crowd gathered around him with a vacant expression. A simpleton, Guzmán guessed, watching his face. Strong but stupid. He seemed to have the intelligence of a small child, judging from his uncertain demeanour, smiling when he discerned a friendly voice, frowning when he heard the jeers from the Çubiry. As he turned, Guzmán tensed, seeing a mass of scar tissue on the left side of the big man's face. He turned to a plump man next to him, his thick beard speckled with crumbs and pieces of food. ‘Who's the big guy?'

‘Jesús Barandiaran, señor. The poor lad's not good for much apart from these sports.'

‘And that one?' He pointed to the other man in the ring.

‘That's Javier Bidane. He's the best
aizkolari
in Vizcaya – many say in all the Basque country. Put your money on him, señor, you won't lose a
céntimo
.'

Guzmán didn't hear the man's advice. He was too busy thinking about how the scars on Jesús Barandiaran's face made him look like El Lobo. Not only that, the big man had a similar build to the bandit.

Bidane was swinging his axe now, loosening up for the contest. As he watched, Guzmán couldn't help noticing the axe seemed to pass awfully close to the spectators. Perhaps accidental decapitation was part of the contest, he thought, watching Bidane's balletic movement as he held the heavy axe in one hand, spun it dexterously into the air and then caught it as it fell.

Jesús Barandiaran had left his axe buried in one of the big logs and he wrenched it from the wood with one hand as his opponent finished his display. Guzmán realised the big man was about to attempt the same moves Bidane had just demonstrated. He decided to move back a few paces. As the vast Basque lifted the axe, the Çubiry burst into a renewed frenzy of insults. Guzmán could hardly blame them. This simple giant could hardly walk properly, never mind swing an axe with the same skill as his opponent. He would be better off in a circus, being booed and mocked for a living.

The crowd watched astonished as Jesús threw the axe above his head and caught it behind his back as it fell in a gleaming blur. After several more manoeuvres, he looked across at his opponent and nodded. It was time to begin.

There were roars of excitement as the two men jumped up onto their respective piles of logs and began chopping furiously, showering the spectators with wood chippings. It was skilful and artfully done, Guzmán observed, stifling a yawn. But it was a shame to watch men chop wood while there was still some excellent lamb to be had and he returned to the marquee.

Inside the tent, the lamb was being pulled from the brazier and Guzmán savoured the aroma as the cooks began cutting the meat. His hungry anticipation was interrupted by a sudden commotion outside. Intrigued by the notion that something exciting or even interesting might be about to take place, he went to investigate.

The gang of
Çubiry had tired of watching the contest and
were now milling round Jesús Barandiaran, grunting and swinging their arms, calling him an ape. Distraught, Jesús let the axe fall to the ground, waving his huge hands at the men dancing around him in a fruitless attempt to keep them away. He was too slow, Guzmán saw, as the Çubiry took turns to run in and tap Jesús on the back, cackling as they ducked away before he could confront them.

It was unfair, but Guzmán was hardly going to get into a fight with the Çubiry just because they were bullying a simple wood-chopper. For all he knew, this might be part of the entertainment. On the point of going back into the tent, he paused as he saw the other wood-chopper throw down his axe and plunge into the gaudily dressed Çubiry. Finally, things were getting interesting.

Bidane moved with remarkable speed and Guzmán chuckled as Etienne Çubiry took a punch to the belly that dropped him as if he'd been shot. It was clear Bidane could handle this lot on his own and Guzmán glanced round, wondering if anyone was taking bets. Disappointingly, they were not.

Unexpectedly, Jesús Barandiaran made a move, delivering a wild but accurate punch that sent one of the Çubiry boys flying backwards onto the grass and then, without pausing, he seized another of the gang by the collar and threw him into the stack of half-chopped logs. It was obvious the Çubiry boys had no taste for a fight against someone able to defend themselves, Guzmán thought, watching them retreat across the field, yelling outraged threats at the two wood-choppers as they went.

With the excitement over, Guzmán returned to the tent where his plate of lamb waited on the counter. He paused, hearing a strange whistle followed by shouts and laughter as someone pushed through the crowd towards the wood-choppers. Guzmán sighed and left the lamb, anxious once more not to miss anything.

A man dressed in shepherd's clothing was slowly weaving his way through the spectators. As he neared the wood-choppers, he whistled once more before setting off across the field at a sprightly pace that was surprising for a man of his years. When he repeated the whistle, Jesús Barandiaran obediently ambled after him.

Realising the two men would pass him on their way to the gate, Guzmán stepped back under the awning of the marquee to avoid being seen. He watched, puzzled, as they went out into the lane leading back to town, wondering why an old shepherd like Mikel Aingeru was leading the giant Basque wood-chopper around like a tame bear.

FRANCE 1954, ST JEAN PIED DE PORT

It was seven thirty and the sky was dark with rain clouds as Guzmán walked through the deserted village to the station. There were no passengers on the platform and no sign of Ochoa. Slow drops of rain began to fall, and he returned to the car to have a cigarette. He was a little drowsy, possibly from the wine, beer and cognac he had drunk throughout the day together with a few tapas and, of course, a hearty lunch. In his pocket was a paper bag containing a half-eaten pig's cheek. Opening the door, he took the bag from his pocket and threw it onto the verge. You could go off things.

Guzmán had just started to doze when the sound of voices made him look up. A group of men were coming towards him, led by Etienne Çubiry. As the group passed the car, Guzmán pulled the brim of his hat down to hide his face, watching them in the rear-view mirror as they turned into a narrow street that led to the river. They were probably going home for dinner, he realised, with a pang of jealousy. And then it struck him: perhaps this was his chance to take a look at Chez Çubiry. He reached for the Browning under his seat but, once again, thought better of it. There was no love lost between the French and Spanish governments. It would cause a diplomatic incident if he was arrested carrying a weapon.

He climbed from the car and turned up the collar of his coat as he followed the gang down dark cobbled streets, the shops now shuttered and locked. In front of him, he heard the boisterous chatter of the Çubiry echoing in the autumn air as he trailed them along streets where pale lights glinted through chinks in the wooden shutters.

Ahead, across a narrow bridge, was an arched gate. Beyond it, a steep cobbled street rose past the shadowed outline of a church. Guzmán watched from the doorway of a pharmacy as the Çubiry crossed the bridge in a staccato clatter of boots and turned onto a path running along the riverbank. A moment later, he followed, guided by their noise through the dark trees and bushes. After ten minutes, the Çubiry rattled across a wooden bridge and Guzmán saw vague lights from a huddle of low buildings behind a wire fence. Beyond the fence, the sombre outline of a dilapidated chateau, its detail lost in shadow, a few stuttering candles in some of the windows the only sign of occupation. He heard a sharp voice give a command and saw a flicker of light as the gate opened. A moment later, it closed again.

Guzmán crossed the bridge and sheltered under a knot of dripping trees near the gate, listening for voices, though he heard only rain and the slap of the river against its banks.

A handwritten sign hung on the gate, the inked letters now streaked.

Exportation Çubiry, Accès Interdit

The fence was an ugly construction of wire strung between concrete posts about two metres high, topped here and there with rusted strands of barbed wire. The Çubiry seemed relaxed about their security, since there were several places where an intruder could be over the fence in a matter of seconds. An intruder like Guzmán, anyway.

The rain grew heavier. This was no night for standing around. He put a hand on the gate, testing it as he heaved himself up. Nothing stirred on the other side and he dropped down into the compound, listening carefully as he moved in the direction of the house. He tensed as he heard voices coming towards him. Men chatting, their boots splashing in the mud as they approached. Cautiously, he drifted into a thicket of bushes, grateful for the protection of their sodden leaves as the two men went by. They were not taking an evening stroll, that was clear: one carried a shotgun, the other wielded a large cudgel. The men continued their conversation under the trees for a few minutes before moving on, unaware of Guzmán's presence a couple of metres away.