The Faint-hearted Bolshevik (5 page)

Of all the striking photographs in the world, there is one that inspires awe regardless of ideology or prejudice: the one of the four Russian grand duchesses, the daughters of Nicholas II who were put to the sword (of whatever sort) by the Bolsheviks in Yekaterinburg after the Revolution. It doesn’t matter whether you’re atheist or orthodox, reactionary communist or an econotechnoliberal, a supporter of the monarchy or someone who believes that every last drop of blue blood should be poured down the drain as soon as possible. Those four perfect faces, those four proud and angelic children, forever united by their tragic destiny, leave an indelible impact on whatever small piece of heart we may have left.

I keep their photograph on my desk (well, let’s call it that) here as in all the other places I’ve lived over the past five years since I discovered it. I’ve looked at it so often I know it by heart. It’s difficult to choose one from among the four girls. They all have that elusive Slav beauty, partly divine, partly wild. The same beauty that the best ice-skaters and gymnasts possess (apart from the American ones, so vulgar with their orthodontic braces), a beauty that has led me to become addicted to their competitions. However, if I had to choose my favourite, for example if someone were to threaten me with doing something as cruel as taking a pair of scissors to the photograph, I would beg him to spare the Grand Duchess Olga.

Of the four, she is the eldest and perhaps the haughtiest. She stares right at the camera, fully aware of her boundless charm, like a professional. The others hold their heads erect, but she tilts hers to the side, with calculated languor. At her young age she is already imbued with her semi-divine status and knows that the photographer is a lackey, little more than a muzhik. The Grand Duchess floats in a dress that is worth and costs (not that she’s paying) more than everything the photographer owns. She has no reason to fear him, and she proclaims this through her childish insolence, tinged with a precocious hint of the femme fatale.

I’ve repeatedly asked myself what that girl, that budding young woman, felt when she saw the first rifletouting muzhik burst into her chambers to trample on the cloud of tulle in which she had lived until that moment. When she had to suffer in silence as her beautiful flesh paid for all the muzhik blood spilled by the despots adorning her family tree. I’ve never read, although maybe it’s been written down somewhere, exactly what they did to the grand duchesses before dispatching them to the common grave so that nobody could plant a possible Czar of all the Russias in their bellies. Of course I’ve imagined it, naturally, and not always in a virtuous way. At the age the Grand Duchess Olga was when she was forever cut off from the line of succession, she must have been a creature eminently capable of arousing impure thoughts and acts, and it’s debatable whether an inflamed Bolshevik would have turned his nose up or repressed his manhood. The Russians’ propensity for lust and torturing their neighbors is as notorious as their propensity to wail away to a background of balalaikas. Therefore, assuming a probable situation (whether it happened or not is neither here nor there), I have also often asked myself what the Grand Duchess felt when the first muzhik ripped off his cartridge belt and howled with pleasure. The feelings an ordinary woman would experience are well-known, but not those of a Grand Duchess, accustomed to thinking of muzhiks as being on the same level as dogs, or lower, depending on the dog.

I can’t deny that on imagining this horrible scene I find myself taking sides with the Grand Duchess against the Bolshevik. In the first place, I’m sure the Grand Duchess washed herself more often, and she spoke French. When you’re walking down a deserted street at night (life is a dark and deserted street at night), and you turn a corner, you would rather come across a sweet-smelling young lady who speaks French than a muzhik crawling with lice. Secondly, although the idea is a bit too despicable for people to easily admit, any male who finds himself attracted by a female feels a physiological hatred towards the guy who gets to have her, regularly or as a one-off.

So, having made clear my devoted commitment to the Grand Duchess, it is nevertheless undeniable that I have never been able to put myself in her shoes, whereas I have tried the Bolshevik’s on for size. There’s a moment in particular when the Bolshevik’s fate sends a shiver down my spine. Not when he finds her, not even when he strips her and discovers her divine treasure (maybe the brute didn’t even bother to strip her). Nor, of course, when he defiles her, taking her like any other woman and dispossessing her of her Grand Duchy. No, the moment when the Bolshevik discovers his elusive mission here on Earth occurs after the Grand Duchess has been assassinated and buried, when he remembers her for the first time.

Until then, he has been able to seek refuge in the mob he belongs to. But at that moment he is on his own. Filtered through memory for the first time, his feelings about the Grand Duchess are something that concern only him. And the damsel’s martyrdom and death don’t have the same meaning for him as for the others. The rest of them barely are aware of anything except for the black pleasure of revenge. He on the other hand, falling into an ambush of destiny, suffers a loss. The Cause demanded that she be executed, and he believed in the Cause. How many muzhiks died during the reign of Nicholas II? Until this moment, the answers to simple questions like that protected him. But now no more. He wishes the little girl hadn’t disappeared, and the Cause is responsible for his devastation. The Cause and himself.

What a tender moment, when the Bolshevik turns against himself and the Revolution to admit his already necessarily despairing love for the Grand Duchess. When he forgets that the sweet memory he surrenders to was refined over the centuries thanks to the blood and sweat of his own ancestors. There is no more interesting believer than the one who changes faith. An unswerving patriot, an unrelenting revolutionary, a chaste monk, prompt yawns as easily as approving epitaphs. The world progresses thanks to renegades.

I’ve always thought that the paradise where the heroes go,Valhalla or whatever it’s called, must be a gloomy place where trumpets blow, banners fly in the air, and athletic hetaerae perform laborious sexual gymnastics with the champions. On the other hand, the den where felons wallow must be a place worthy of fantasy: it must be swarming with the most complex women, with whom it’s possible to hold substantial conversations. Nor is it a question, in my view, of spending all day mating like monkeys, to obtain the tedious reward that for an alarming number of cultures is the only thing that brainless idiots who die for a sublime idea seem to want.

Like everyone else, I’ve got my revolutionary side, and I find it somewhat trying to praise the genocides encouraged or tolerated by the Czars as part of their empire-building whims. It’s worth pointing this out so that what I’m about to state is not misunderstood: of everything that happened in the Russian Revolution, nothing affects me more than the faint-heartedness of this Bolshevik, overwhelmed by his filthy passion for the tyrant’s daughter. Perhaps such a Bolshevik never existed, and it’s undeniable that the revolution was the epic culmination of a powerful belief. Even so, I stand by what I’ve said. Beliefs invariably follow a natural course, from their revolt against another wicked belief to their transformation into the new wickedness that will later have to be destroyed. Pain and beauty, on the other hand, are irrefutable because they cannot be measured against any belief, nor do they require any belief to be at their service. No man is worth what he believes in, but instead what he has desired and what he has been given to suffer. Any son of a bitch or dimwit can believe whatever they like. The chosen ones are chosen for ecstasy or misfortune. The best, for both.

I contemplate the distant image of Olga with her sisters, all destined for torture (at least we can be sure of the moral torture) and execution. Who would have thought, when everything I’ve written was nothing more than nonsense to while away Sunday afternoons, that I would find myself one day experiencing the Bolshevik’s guilty faint-heartedness?

The fact is, the body knows what’s best for it, and sometimes so does the brain bubbling away up top, so that the next morning, I no longer remembered having harboured sinister thoughts regarding myself and that highly disconcerting young girl. I might go so far as to say I was in a peculiarly good mood. There was a time when my ability to switch from despair to light-heartedness with the same ease as swapping one tie for another bothered me, but since I discovered that being cyclothymic protects against other more tiring and unpleasant mental illnesses, I have happily welcomed my mood swings.

While I made coffee I decided I was sick and, putting on my most pitiful voice, I called the office to let them know. I would have time later to come up with something serious enough to justify my abandoning ship for the day. I took off my tie, but while I was taking off my going-to-the-bank shirt to exchange it for my lucky one (which has an indelible mark on the front, the result of a red-headed bombshell puking on me during a rather mysterious work dinner), it occurred to me it might be of some use dressing up a bit. I therefore reassembled my normal image as a respectable guy, in the usual sense of the term. By this I mean I looked more like the kind of bastards who, if they want to screw you over, pay someone else to do it, rather than the kind of bastards who screw you over because someone’s paid them to do it (decent people don’t have a definite appearance; you recognize them after a while because they haven’t screwed you over). I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s also possible that I splashed on a bit more Paco Rabanne or Armani, which is what jerks like me do once we get past thirty, to disguise the stench of decay.

When I left home I didn’t have a concrete strategy, but I already knew I was going to approach the girl and push my luck. I brushed aside everything that told me I should leave her alone and everything that had depressed me the previous afternoon. I was nothing but a filthy, unscrupulous pig, and that little darling was but a promise of sordid delights. That being the case, things were bound to happen.

I got to the school after registration, when the girls were already all in class.

For a while I indulged in some hare-brained ideas: passing myself off as an inspector from the Ministry of Education, there to give the owners of that select teaching establishment a headache; posing as an exec from an advertising agency looking for cute little girls to advertise mini tampons; going in wearing dark glasses and suggesting to a member of staff that human trafficking could provide a healthy supplement to their meagre wages. But when it came down to it I couldn’t be bothered, so I thought it better to wait until the break. The wall around the playground was low and by taking up position by the railings I might be able to see something.

Break began at eleven. The girls came out in year groups and arranged themselves around a skipping rope here, a hopscotch over there, a mysterious joint glowing in one of the girl’s hands somewhere else. I was a bit surprised that such well-brought up young ladies, who had so many reasons (and genuine ones at that, not the ones they use to convince poor devils to abstain) to say no to drugs, should prove to be such unashamed hash addicts. It was by pure chance that I was stationed at the point furthest from the school building and that this little group had come to almost fifty feet of me the better to conduct their clandestine activities. I pretended I hadn’t seen what they were up to, but my presence didn’t put them off. The girl rolling the joint glanced at me, then carried on what she was doing.

At first there were five of them, but gradually another three drifted over from the middle of the playground. One of the trio was my girl. All of them were about fourteen or fifteen years old, and their bodies were a chaotic mixture of woman and girlish features, but she stood out from the rest. She was the tallest, the most attractive, the only one without a single pimple on her face and the juiciest by far. She had barely joined the group when the girl busy rolling the joint snapped at her, “Are you going to have a drag today, Rosana, or does the idea of sucking on something we’ve all sucked on put you off?”

“You’re such a dyke, Izaskun,” trilled Rosana in a bored tone.

“And you so fussy, Miss fucking little princess.”

“I’m not fussy, it’s just that I’ve got my own,” replied Rosana, producing a pack of Marlboros and a pink lighter from the waistband of her skirt. She lit a cigarette and began to smoke, her arms crossed, her hips, as yet not rounded like a woman’s, pushed forward.

“You’re missing out. There’s no comparison,” said Izaskun, “but perhaps if you smoke a joint you won’t be top of the class and that senile Doña Lourdes will stop going on about how you’re going to be a doctor or a government minister.”

“Drop it, Izaskun, you’re always bugging her,” one of the others cut in.

“I’m not going to be anything like that,” Rosana defended herself, “but I’m not going to end up like you, advertising yourself in the papers to get money to buy coke.”

“Have you tried coke, Izaskun?” asked the one who seemed the stupidest member of the clique.

“Once,” bragged Izaskun, shooting Rosana a resentful look. “My cousin gave me some to try when we did it.”

“The only thing you’ve done is pee on your bed while dreaming about it,” Rosana mocked her. Some of the others laughed.

“What about you?” asked the dimwit, eager for sordid details of whatever vice someone else might have been engaging in.

“As if I’d tell you.”

“Of course she has, Nuria,” Izaskun laughed, “With Ken, Barbie’s boyfriend. She put his head right up there. His dick’s tiny, even by her standards.”

Now it was the girls who had been with Izaskun before Rosana and her friends arrived who burst out laughing. Rosana kept quiet, exhaling smoke with her top lip arched as if she were about to smile. Then she turned and walked off with her two friends.

As soon as the girls went back inside I rushed to find a phone booth. I dialled Sonsoles’ number and was greeted by the hoarse voice of Lucía, the maid:

“Hello?”

“Good morning, I’m calling from Rosana’s school, is that her mother?”

“No.”

“In that case, with whom am I speaking?”

“I’m the maid.”

“Ah. Is the lady of the house there?”

“Yes, one moment.”

After about thirty seconds, the unmistakable sound of Sonsoles’ mother came down the line. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning madam, I’m calling from your daughter’s school. We’d like to arrange a meeting between you and her tutor.”

“Has something happened?”

“No, quite the opposite, please don’t worry. We’re arranging meetings for all the girls at the moment. It’s part of their career guidance programme. They’re reaching an age where they ought to start thinking about the future. Rosana is a very good student.”

“Yes, she is.”

“And a very reliable girl.”

“She’s never given us any trouble at all,” said the mother of Sonsoles and Rosana, her pride once again evident in her voice.

“When would suit you?”

“Please, I’ll leave it to you to decide.”

Now I had the information I was after (Sonsoles
was not
the girl’s mother), I got rid of the woman as quickly as I could, inviting her to a meeting the following Monday that nobody would attend and whose only consequence would be that she would be furious with the school to which Don Armando paid such high fees. Misfortune is sometimes the result of stupid lapses in foresight.

The girls were let out at half past twelve and Rosana and a few friends caught a bus. I got back in the car and followed it to Sonsoles’ house. Rosana got off with another blonde girl, although her shade of blond was more washed out. I heard them arrange to meet a quarter of an hour later and parked nearby.

Fifteen minutes later, the two girls were reunited and set off towards the Retiro park. Once inside, they went in search of an ice cream stand and bought a couple of cones. They walked as far as the pond and followed the path around the northern side. They sat on a bench near the statue of Ramón y Cajal to finish their ice creams. While they were sitting there, the other girl looked at Rosana and Rosana looked straight ahead. Rosana seemed serious and was doing the talking. The other girl wasn’t saying much, only giggled every so often. I was on the far side of the path, so I couldn’t hear them over the noise other people made. After a few minutes they were joined by another girl. She’d got off the bus one stop before them.

Half an hour later, the one who had come with Rosana looked at her watch and said something to her. Sonsoles’ sister shook her head. After wavering for a few moments, the one with the watch got up and left. Rosana stayed with the other girl for another ten minutes, smoking and talking in a low voice. After that they said goodbye and went their separate ways. Rosana set off slowly down the path, looking at the trees and the passers-by. If I had been her age, or if things had been different, I would’ve followed her home discreetly and then gone back to my house to write her some poetry. But things were what they were: I was thirty-three and had little or no desire to write any poems, so I asked myself why I was putting it off. That moment was as good as any. I started to follow her and three or four metres before I caught up with her I called out, “Rosana.”

She stopped and turned round very slowly. She looked more wary than astonished.

“How do you know my name?”

“Don’t be afraid,” I said, lifting my hands in a sign of peace.

“I’m not afraid. Who are you?”

“I’m Javier, and I’m a friend.”

“A friend of whom?” The pupils of her blue eyes were so small they’d almost disappeared.

“Okay. I’m a policeman. But don’t tell anyone.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said firmly, and set off again, but in a leisurely way, as if aware that I would walk alongside her. I caught up with her.

“I know. I want to talk to you about your friend Izaskun.”

“You must have made a mistake. I don’t have any friends by that name.”

“There aren’t so many Rosanas around that I’d make a mistake.”

“Whatever. None of my friends are called Izaskun.”

I smiled and tried to catch her eye, but it was impossible unless she was the one catching yours.

“It’s no good trying to trick me. I know she’s in your class and I’ve seen you with her at school. You were together in the playground today.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re friends,” she pointed out, flicking her hair back with her right hand, which was the one nearest me. Normally the best way of telling a girl isn’t a woman yet is by looking at her hands: girls’ hands tend to have stubby fingers and chewed nails. Rosana’s nails were short, although she didn’t bite them, but there was nothing stubby about her fingers. On the contrary, she separated them and moved them like a pro, demonstrating a sophistication that many women never acquire, aware that each finger has its own task in life.

“Rosana, you’re a good girl,” I said, “and you know that Izaskun is in trouble. Wouldn’t you like to help her?”

“Help Izaskun? I’d be glad if you put her in prison. She’s a complete idiot and deserves it.”

“We won’t be putting any girls in prison. It’s not exactly little girls we’re after.”

“Well, what can I do?”

“Tell me who sells her drugs. That’s all.”

“Borja. He’s her pusher.”

“Borja who?”

“I don’t know. He goes to the boys’ school next to ours, the one run by priests.”

Rosana had changed direction. She came to a halt under one of the trees by the side of the path to make her accusation in greater comfort. I stood facing her.

“Is there no way you can give me his last name? There could be five hundred Borjas in that school.”

Rosana raised her eyes and looked me up and down for a moment. Then she said, “This Borja is unmistakable, he’s been repeating eighth grade for three or four years and they’re always trying to kick him out. They’d have done it already, except his dad’s president of the Alumni Association.”

“Do you know anything else about him?”

“Yes. He’s always trying to hook up with me,” she boasted, twisting one of her curls around her index finger, “but since I don’t pay him any attention he goes out with Izaskun instead. Izaskun has got a strong stomach.”

“And that’s everything you know?”

“And that’s everything I know, cop,” she snapped at me.

“Wow, you watch lots of movies, don’t you?”

“Sometimes. I also saw you earlier, by the school railings. I thought you were one of those guys who like to spy on the girls skipping in case they show their underwear.”

“Well, I suppose there are quite a few guys like that.”

“A few. But they never wear such nice ties as yours. I noticed it before. I didn’t think cops earned much.”

“I work overtime. Do you like coming to the park?”

Rosana frowned. “What’s that got to do with your investigation?”

“Nothing. I’ve finished questioning you. It’s to learn more about you. I’ve taken a liking to you.”

Rosana moved away from the tree.

“I don’t think you’re so bad yourself. But Lucía will have had lunch on the table five minutes ago. My mother gets angry if I’m late. She says Lucía won’t take preparing it seriously if I’m late. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find decent help these days?” she asked sarcastically.

“Of course, you’re right. I won’t keep you. Thanks a lot for everything.”

“There’s no need to thank me. I think it’s great you’re going to arrest Borja.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone. Not even your mother or your best friend.”

“You can’t tell my mother anything. Poor thing. Goodbye.”

“See you later,” I replied, spell-bound.

Rosana moved away down the path, her impeccable mane of blonde hair waving in the wind as she moved through the crowd. At one point she pushed her hair to one side and took advantage of the opportunity to turn her head and check whether I was watching her. I could make out the look of pleasure on her face in spite of the distance between us. It was ten past two and it was starting to get too hot to be wearing a suit, but it wasn’t too bad standing there in the shadow of the trees. I wandered among the elderly, the children and the beautiful girls on skates, their slim thighs wrapped in dazzling multi-coloured leggings. One of the disadvantages of summer is that you can get distracted and imagine there are no ugly women in the world. As I walked I remembered Lewis Carroll and J. M. Barrie, perhaps two of the most brilliant apostles of heterosexual pederasty (although there are some who maintain that Barrie swung both ways, I don’t believe so: just think about the nervous shiver Peter Pan feels when he discovers that Wendy has become a mother and compare that with the complete indifference he shows the boys). I also remembered Oscar Wilde, unparalleled apostle of the other kind of pederasty. It ought to give pause for thought that some of the most distinguished members of society figure among those who devote themselves to activities society considers appalling. The Greeks, to whom we Europeans owe the glorious inheritance of doubt that distinguishes us from backward peoples and savages (for example North America, Japan, etc.) were almost all sodomites or child molesters. Of course, it’s always been easier to burn at the stake those who do things that make their fellow citizens feel uneasy. Perhaps that is what every self-respecting ruler should do. But what might the irresponsible subject prefer to do?