The Thief Who Couldn't Sleep (9 page)

Esteban had still not returned when I got up from the bed. I tucked my attaché case under the bed and left the room. In a bookstore near the university I bought a pocket atlas and calculated a route to the French border. I stopped at a cafe and had a glass of bitter red wine. I thumbed through the atlas again and plotted the remainder of my trip. Spain, France, Italy, Yugoslavia, and Turkey—that seemed the best route. That gave me four borders to cross, with each one promising to be slightly more hazardous than the one before it. But it could be done. I was certain it could be done.

Esteban was waiting for me. He ran to me and embraced me furiously. "You were gone," he said accusingly. "When I came back, you were gone."

"I went out for some air."

"Ah, who can breathe in the fetid stench of fascism? But the streets are dangerous. You should not have gone out. I feared that something might have happened to you."

"Nothing did."

"Ah." He scratched at his beard. "It is not safe for you here. It is not safe for either of us. We must leave."

"We?"

"Both of us!" He spread his arms wide as if to embrace the beauty of the idea. "We will go to France. This afternoon we rush to the border. Tonight, under the cloak of darkness, we slip across the border like sardines. Who will see us?"

"Who?"

"No one!" He clapped his hands. "I know the way, my friend. One goes to the border, one talks to the right people, and like that"—he snapped his fingers soundlessly—"it is arranged. In no time at all we are across the border and into France. I will go to Paris. Can you imagine me in Paris? I shall become the most famous hairdresser in all of Paris."

"Are you a hairdresser in Madrid?"

He frowned at me. "One cannot be a hairdresser in Madrid. Would Jackie Kennedy come to Madrid to have her hair set? Or Christine Keeler? Or Nina Khrushchev? Or—"

"Have you ever been to France?"

"Never!"

"Have you been to the border?"

"Never in my life!"

"But you know people there?"

"Not a soul!" He could not contain himself and rushed to embrace me again. His body odor was almost identical to that of Mustafa.

"I don't know," I said. "I'm not sure it sounds like the best of all possible plans. It might be dangerous for us to travel together."

"Dangerous? It would be dangerous for us to separate."

"Why?"

"Why?" He spread his hands. "Why not?"

"Esteban—"

He turned from me and walked to the window. "She is not there now," he said. "There is a girl across the way, very fat. Sometimes one can see her."

"I know."

"Sometimes she has a man there, and I watch them together. Not always the same man, either. I was going to watch her tonight. It is sad, is it not? Tonight I will be in France and I will never be able to watch the fat girl again. Do you think she is a whore?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know. What does it—"

"Perhaps she would come to France with us. I will set her hair and she will become famous."

I reached under the bed for my attaché case. I wanted only to escape this madman. The case was not there.

"Esteban—"

"You look for this?" He handed it to me. I opened it and checked its contents. Everything seemed to be there.

"You see," he said solemnly, "it would be very dangerous for us to be separated. Every day at four o'clock the Guardia Civil comes to check on me. They do not beat me—that was something I made up for you—but they come every day to make sure I am still here. I am subversive."

"I believe it."

"But they do not feel that I am dangerous. Do you understand? They only check to see who it is whom I have been seeing and what correspondence I have received and matters of that sort. I always tell them everything. That is the only way to deal with these fascist swine. One must tell them everything, everything. Only then can they be sure that I'm not dangerous."

If they thought the foul little lunatic was not dangerous, then they did not know him as well as I did.

"So if they come today, I must tell them about you. The names on your three passports, and the papers with the letters and numbers upon them, and—"

"No."

"But what else can I do, my friend? You see why we must go to France together? If we are separated, the police will know all about you. But if we are together, then you are safe. And under the protective cloak of darkness we will steal across the border into France, and I will become famous. We are like brothers, you and I. Closer than brothers. Like twins who shared the same womb. Do you comprehend?"

I was taller than Esteban, and heavier. I thought of knocking him down and fleeing, but I had done that too often lately. It couldn't work forever. Sooner or later one would run out of beginner's luck. And, if there was any truth in that old chestnut about a madman's possessing superhuman strength, Esteban would be able to wipe the floor with me.

"When will the Guard visit you?"

"In a few hours. So you see that it is good you came to me. In all of Madrid it was to Esteban Robles that you came. Is it not fate?"

In all of Madrid, it was to Esteban Robles that I came. Of all my little band of conspirators, of all my troupe of subversives and schemers and plotters, I had sought out the Judas goat of the secret police. And now I had to take the madman with me to France.

"If you want to go to France, why don't you just go?"

"I have no money, my brother."

"If I gave you money—"

"And I am not clever. I am an artist, a grand artist, but I am not clever. Do I know anything about crossing borders? About stealing through the pass under the protective cloak of night? I know nothing. But with you to guide me and to bribe the proper persons—"

"I could give you money."

"But we
need
each other, my friend!"

Perhaps, I told myself, he might prove useful. At least he spoke Spanish like a native, a natural enough accomplishment for a Spaniard, but one that might be of use. No, I decided, he would
not
prove useful. He would be a nuisance and a danger, but I had to take him along. I was stuck with the lunatic.

"We will go?"

"Yes," I said.

"Now?"

"Now."

He went to the window. "She is still not in her room. Shall we wait for her? The fat little whore would probably be happy to accompany us to Paris."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"You do not like fat girls? For my part—"

"We go together," I said. "Just the two of us, Esteban. You and I. No one else."

His eyes were unutterably sad. "I never have a girl," he said. "Never, never, never. The one time I found a girl who would go with me, I was fooled. You know how I mean? I thought it was this pretty American girl, but when we got back to my room, it turned out to be a
marica
from New York. A fairy. It was better than nothing, but when one has one's heart set on a girl—you are sure you do not want the fat little—"

"There will be girls in Paris, Esteban."

"Ah! You are my brother. You are more than my brother. You are—"

Words failed him, and I was again suffocated in his embrace.

C
hapter 10

B
efore we went
anywhere, I took Esteban to a barber and had him shaved. He fought the idea every step of the way, but I managed to convince him that Frenchmen did not wear beards. Without it he looked less like a fiery anarchist and more like a backward child. I had the barber give him a haircut while he was at it and had my own hair cut so that it looked a little more like the passport photos and a little less like the picture of Evan Tanner that the newspapers had printed. Then, with Esteban in one hand and the attaché case in another, I left Madrid.

We took a train as far as Zaragoza, a bus east to Lerida and another bus north to Sort, a small village a little over twenty miles from the frontier. In Zaragoza I left Esteban for a few moments at a restaurant while I visited a few shops and spent a few pesetas. He was still eating when I returned. He slept on the bus ride. The bus to Sort was not heated, and the last lap of our journey was cold, with the sun down and the wind blowing through the drafty bus. I gave the tall man's sweater to Esteban, who promptly went back to sleep. I wished that I had kept my Irish jacket or had brought along a flask of brandy.

At Sort I poked Esteban awake and led him off the bus. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke in my face. He had been doing this all the way from Madrid, and it was beginning to annoy me.

"Are we in France?"

"No."

"Where are we?"

"Some place called Sort."

"In Spain?"

"Yes."

"I have never heard of it."

There were four cafes in the town. We visited each of them and drank brandy. The third of the four turned out to be the worst, so we returned to it. Esteban appeared to be about half-lit. Among his many other talents, he was evidently incapable of holding liquor.

We sat in a dingy back booth. He began talking in a loud voice about the joys of Paris and the need to escape from the reeking stench of fascism. I had two choices—I could try to sober him up or I could get him drunk enough to pass out. I had the waitress bring a full bottle of brandy and I poured one shot after another into Esteban, and ultimately his head rolled and his eyes closed and he sagged in his chair and quietly passed out.

I stood up and walked to the bar. A large man with sad eyes and a drooping moustache stood beside me. "Your friend," he said, "says things which one should not say in the presence of strangers."

"My friend is sick," I said.

"Ah."

"My friend has a sickness in his mind and must go for treatment. He must go to the hospital."

"There is no hospital in Sort."

"We cannot stay in Sort, then, for I must take him to a hospital."

"There is a hospital in Barcelona. A fine modern hospital, where your friend would be most comfortable."

"We cannot go to the hospital in Barcelona. There is only one hospital that will care for my friend properly."

"In Madrid, then?"

"In Paris."

"In Paris," he said. I poured us each a brandy. He thanked me and said that I was a gentleman, and I said that it was pleasant to drink in the company of worldly men like himself.

"It is far," he said slowly, "to Paris."

"It is."

"And one must have the right papers to cross the frontier."

"My friend has no papers."

"He will have difficulty."

"It is true," I said. "He will have great difficulty."

"It will be impossible for him."

"For worldly men," I said carefully, "for worldly men of goodwill, men who understand one another and understand how life is to be lived, I have heard it said that nothing is impossible."

"There is truth in what you say."

"It is as I have heard it said by wiser men than I."

"It is a wise man who listens to and remembers the words of other wise men."

"You do me much honor, senor."

"You honor me to drink with me, senor."

We had another brandy each. He motioned me to follow him, and we sat at the table next to Esteban. He was still asleep.

"Call me Manuel," the man said. "And I shall call you what?"

"Enrique."

"It is my pleasure to know you, Enrique."

"The pleasure is my pleasure."

"Perhaps among my acquaintances there are men who could help you and your unfortunate friend. When one lives in a town for all of one's life, one knows a great many people."

"I would greatly appreciate your help."

"You will wait here?"

"I will," I said.

He stopped at the bar and said something to the bartender. Then he disappeared into the night. I ordered a cup of black coffee and poured a little brandy into it. When Esteban opened his eyes, I made him drink more of the brandy. He passed out again.

Manuel returned while I was still sipping my coffee. Two other men accompanied him. They stood in the bar and talked in a language I did not understand. I believe it was Basque. The Basque language is one I do not speak or understand, an almost impossible language to learn if one is not born to it. The grammatical construction is as much of a nightmare as the language of the Hopi Indians. I felt very much at a disadvantage. I am not used to being unable to understand other people's speech.

Manuel left his companions at the bar and approached our table. "I have consulted with my friends," he said. "They are of the opinion that something can be done for you."

"May God reward their kindness."

"It must be this night."

"We are ready."

He looked doubtfully at Esteban. "And is he ready, also?"

"Yes."

"Then come with me."

I had trouble getting Esteban to his feet. He swayed groggily and offered up dramatic curses to fascism and the state of the beautician's profession in Madrid. Manuel turned to his friends at the bar, touched his head with his forefinger, then pointed at Esteban and shrugged expressively. He took one of Esteban's arms, and I took the other, and we walked him out into the night.

The other two men followed us. Half a mile from the cafe we entered a dingy one-room hut. The smaller of Manuel's two friends, with long sideburns and denim pants frayed at the cuffs, moved around the room lighting candles. The other uncapped a flask of sweet wine and passed it around. I didn't let Esteban have any. It seemed time to sober him up a bit.

Manuel introduced us all around. The small man with the sideburns was called Pablo; the other, fat, balding, and sweaty, was Vicente. I was Enrique and Esteban was Esteban.

"I have it that you wish to go to France," Vicente said.

"Yes, and to Paris."

"I will set the hair of Brigitte Bardot," said Esteban.

"But the border is difficult."

"So I have heard."

Pablo said something quickly in Basque. Vicente answered him, then turned to me and resumed in Spanish. "You and your friend have a sympathetic reason for going to France. You must take your friend to a hospital, is it not so?"

"It is so."

"For such fine purposes, one can bend laws. But you must know, my friend, that these are dangerous times. Many smugglers attempt to take contraband over the border."

I said nothing. Manuel said something in Basque. I was furious that I had never been able to learn the language. I remembered one sentence that I had stubbornly committed to memory.
"I will meet you at the jai alai fronton."
The Basque construction for this is torture—
I the jai alai fronton at which is played the game of jai alai in the act of meeting I have you in the future.
I don't know how the Basques learn it.

"So you see," said Vicente, "that it is necessary for us to examine your possessions so that we may assure ourselves that you are not smugglers."

"I see."

"For we help willingly but only when the motives of those we help cannot be called into question."

I propped the black attaché case on a rickety card table and opened it. Pablo and Vicente gathered around, while Manuel stayed with Esteban. The various papers were passed over without a second glance. The clothes attracted no particular attention. The items I had purchased in Zaragoza received the lion's share of attention.

"Ah," said Vicente. "And what is this?"

"Beautician supplies."

Esteban came rushing over to me. "For my salon!" He embraced me. "You are my friend, my brother. What have you bought for me?"

"Your supplies, Esteban."

"My brother!"

Pablo was sorting through the bag of cheap cosmetics I had picked up. There were several plastic combs, a pair of scissors, some hair curlers, hardly the elaborate equipment one would use in a beauty parlor. He picked up a tin box of face powder, opened it, sniffed, and looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"Face powder," I said.

Vicente licked a finger, dipped it into the can of face powder, licked it again, smiled, and said something in Basque to Manuel and Pablo. They began to laugh happily.

"Perhaps you will leave this here," Vicente said.

"But it is necessary that we take it with us."

"Ah, but can you not get better face powder in Paris? The French are renowned for their cosmetics, so I have heard."

"This is special powder."

"I can see that it is."

"We have a great need for it."

"A face powder with little scent to it," Vicente said. "A face powder with a sweet taste, and yet a bitter un-dertaste. This is a most remarkable powder."

"My friend obtains great results with this powder."

The three of them laughed uproariously. Esteban was utterly baffled. He couldn't understand what was so important about a tin of powder or what caused men to laugh over it. I did not enlighten him.

Vicente dropped the tin of powder back into my attaché case. I closed the case, and Vicente threw a heavy arm around my shoulder. "We can help you," he said. "And I think you are wise to take the face powder with you, for it would be difficult to locate this brand in Paris, would it not?"

"Most difficult."

"For so many powders are applied with a powder puff, and this one requires a needle, does it not?"

I said nothing.

"We will take you to the border, Enrique. But we must go now."

"That is good."

"And I will carry your suitcase."

I looked at him.

"In case you are searched, senor. It is advisable."

"But in the suitcase—"

"The face powder, my friend."

We played with that one. Finally he agreed that he would carry the powder only at the moment of crossing. Pablo asked to see the tin again. I opened the case and showed it to him. He left hurriedly, explaining that he had to obtain provisions for the journey. Vicente brought out the flask of wine, and we drank to the success of our travels.

When Pablo returned, we got under way. Manuel said good-bye to us and headed back to the cafe. Vicente led us to a donkey cart piled high with straw. Elaborately, he explained to me how the crossing would be managed. He needn't have bothered. I had seen the scene in countless films. At the border, he told me, we would ride on the wagon with the straw covering us, while he and Pablo rode in front. Thus, he said, delighted with his own ingenuity, the border guards would think there was only a load of straw on the wagon, when actually there would be two men beneath the straw whom they would not see.

"Two men and an attaché case," I said.

"Of course," Vicente said. He looked terribly sad. "Now the arrangements of the money," he said. "We have expenses, you understand. Certain money must be passed on to certain persons. I am sure you comprehend—"

"How much?"

He quoted a price that came to less than $50 U.S. I had a feeling he would spend that much or more bribing the border guards. I started to bargain, just to avoid being too delighted with the price, and he almost instantly knocked it down a third. He wanted this fare, I realized. He wasn't about to let us walk away.

I paid him the money. It would be a long ride, he said, and no doubt we would wish to sleep. We could stretch out on top of the hay and cover ourselves with blankets and we need not get under the hay until he told us. It would be easiest to cross the frontier at the corner of Andorra, he said. We would cross two borders, first passing from Spain into Andorra, then from that tiny Basque republic into France. But that, he said, was much the easiest way. The guards were less vigorous at those posts, and they were his friends.

Esteban and I climbed onto the hay. Pablo gave us each a blanket, and we stretched out on the hay and wrapped ourselves in the blankets. The night was cooler now, the sky alive with stars. Pablo and Vicente climbed up on the little platform behind the donkey, and the animal shifted into gear and started for the border. I lay still, watching the stars, my hand coiled tightly around the grip of the attaché case.

In the darkness Esteban whispered, "But your name is not Enrique."

I told him to be still. Then, after I thought he had dropped off to sleep again, he was back with more questions. "When did you buy me those supplies? The equipment for the beauty parlor?"

"I will tell you later."

"Tell me now."

I looked over at our two escorts. I wondered if they could hear or if it would matter.

I said, "I bought them for you in Zaragoza."

"It was good of you."

"Don't mention it."

"But if I may say so, my brother, I think you were cheated."

"How?"

"The shears are cheap. They won't last. And the Cosmetics are of the poorest sort. On a shop girl one might use such inferior goods, but on the wife of Charles de Gaulle—"

"You'll set her hair?"

"And make a fortune. What is all this fuss about the face powder?"

"It is forbidden to bring face powder into France."

"But why?"

"There is a very high tariff. To protect the French manufacturers, you see."

"But to make such a fuss over one tin? And I heard the fat one say that it has no smell and tastes sweet."

"Go to sleep, Esteban."

"There are many things that I do not understand."