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It was deemed, in general, a wise disposition of the Aguilar figs. If, somehow, you had miraculously contrived to dine as richly and voluminously as they did at the great house, the figs would have been just the thing to assure felicity of digestion, for they were infamously purgative. Perhaps they believed up there that all the world fed liberally on salted ham and pink frosted cakes and thereby suffered the attendant constipation—a distemper, like gout and melancholia, reserved exclusively for the rich. No matter the motive for their distribution, the Aguilar figs grew, had grown there for a thousand years, and something had to be done with them. Nobody, certainly, would ever buy them. Thus they came—thick-skinned and
pungent, like all the gifts of Spain—to you. It was always nice to have the rush basket—something or other could be done with it. This year, of course, being 1936, there would be no figs.

Not that they would cease to grow—the gnarled and twisted
ficus carica
had no choice in the matter. The harsh copper sun flamed in the heavens for months, as it always had, the ancient roots sought out what moisture remained in the stony soil of the river valley and, even in civil war, photosynthesis would not be denied. Not, that is, until the shellfire came and blew everything to hell. But, in October of 1936, the shellfire was still a comfortable distance away—more than two hundred miles away, where the Moorish armies of General Mola had besieged Madrid. And—
no pasarán
, they shall not pass—
they
would steal not one more inch of Republican earth.

So there would be figs. There would be lemons as well. Hard, green things certain to produce a gargoyle’s scowl on the face of anyone foolish enough to taste them. For the true
limón—
a beautiful, fat, sunny fruit near sweet to the palate, you had to go to Valencia or Tarragona. In San Ximene, alas, they were not so blessed, the fertility of their little valley being most charitably described as
unkind
. The
vino tinto
, red wine, produced in the Aguilar vineyards was reputed to be curative, though exactly what it cured no one could say, lest it be life itself.

There would be figs, come harvest time, but they would no longer be nestled in rush baskets. They would not be bestowed by Doña Flora in her foxtail stole. The glossy De Bouton would never again sound its velvet trumpet at the whitewashed doorways of the San Ximene peasants. Those days were gone forever. The Aguilar figs were embarked on a new destiny.

Thirty-two percent of the total harvest would be retained by the workers and peasants of the San Ximene commune. Twenty-one percent would be donated to the food stores of the Asturian miners’ brigades, fighting to the north. Twenty-four percent would be dispatched to relieve the hungers of Madrid, as the fascist noose was tightened around the city’s throat, threatening to still its
passionate song of freedom. Twenty-two percent of the harvest would travel east—eleven percent for hospitals on the coast, another eleven percent to feed the International Brigades, now flowing into the country from the breadth of Europe. An additional twenty percent would be required, it was felt, for trade with other villages, so that tools and seed, medicine and ammunition, could be obtained. Let the world take note and raise its fist: the San Ximene figs were going to war!

But it would not be easy. There had been defeatist grumbling to the effect that San Ximene had pledged to distribute one hundred and nineteen percent of its fig harvest. How was that to be done?

Work harder! Thus spoke the fiery idealists of the village. An old man, however, his hands frozen to knotted claws by a lifetime of torturing food from the wretched soil, rumbled with laughter at such a suggestion. “Work yourselves to death, if you like,” he said, “but you’ll not get a fig tree to grow more fruit.” A young peasant disagreed. Was it not the case that some of the fruit spurs were pruned from the trees every spring? Everyone had to admit it was the usual practice to do so. Well then, let them be. At this, the old man stopped laughing. “If you do not cut some of the spurs, the branches will break in the autumn. You’ll have your nineteen percent, it’s true, but next year you’ll have nothing.” The young peasant nodded, sadly, his agreement. He had to point out, however, that if Franco and his fascists gobbled up their beloved Spain in 1936, who was foolish or greedy enough to worry himself over the fig harvest of 1937? Heads swiveled back and forth between them as they argued. Who was right? What was right?

One timid soul—formerly a laundress in the Aguilar household—wondered aloud if, just perhaps, it might not be the safest course to lower the production goals. But at this
everyone
was aghast, so she fluttered her hands and quickly backed down, her career in political debate over before it began and a good thing too. For the percentages were as rocks or mountains—immutable.

These numbers were, after all, the precious fruits of weeks spent in fervent disputation—intense, talmudic sessions held in the back room of Serreño’s Bar that had seen the best minds of San Ximene
fully engaged in struggle—and one didn’t simply cast such treasure over the nearest fence. The percentages were
symbols
—a de facto treaty between countervailing forces. And, truly, that they were able to agree on anything at all was simply astonishing.

Consider the opening positions: the PSUC, Partido Socialista Unificado de Cataluña, in which socialists and communists had agreed to agree, wanted to parcel out the harvest down to the very last fig. The technical approach, in which numbers danced formally with contributions to the cause. What value a soldier? Less than a hospital nurse? More than a railroad worker? How many figs to each? It could, if one applied oneself to the dialectic with good will, be determined. It had to be determined—the war went on, and the trees would leave dormancy in a few months. So it would be determined. They would sit there and determine it. Serreño, make coffee!

On the other hand, the Partido Obrero de Unificación Marxista, POUM, had very different thoughts on the matter. These were the anarchists. To them, freedom was all and to hell with your pussyfooting numbers. Do nothing! That was their war cry. Action achieved by inaction. Simply leave the groves open and whoever needed figs could come and take them. Was this great battle in which they were engaged not, when all was said and done, over freedom itself? Could the past—the tyranny of priests, the despotic Aguilars, the brutal Guardia—be forgotten so quickly? Open the groves, open the town, open the world, come to that, and let each individual attain the full flowering of conscience. The ruling of the self by the self,
that
was government!

Clearly, at the beginning, the contending forces had some way to go.

And if, in getting to their common solution, they agreed to distribute many more figs than could safely grow on the fig trees, well, that was considered a very small price to pay.

Soon enough, there were committees for everything. Not that you could have found a soul under heaven—not a sane one, anyhow—who thought that Spaniards and committees were anything but
mutually exclusive propositions, but something had to be done. Just be thankful, they told each other, that the committees were composed of PSUC and POUM and that, San Ximene being innocent of factories and workshops, the CNT—Anarcho-Syndicalist trade unionists—didn’t have to be included. They would have hacked down the fig trees, sawn the damn things into boards, and built themselves a Hall of Workers.

There were committees for the distribution of food, for health and sanitation, for education, for grievances, for justice, for the moral improvement of youth. There was a committee assigned to the supervision of Don Teodosio and Doña Flora—held under virtual house arrest since the Nationalist rising in July. This committee immediately gave birth to a subcommittee—known as the Committee for the Carlist Mules—made up of a communist peasant and an anarchist peasant who, responsible for the twenty-six gray beasts belonging to the Aguilar estates, argued politics by the hour while shoveling manure out the barn windows. It was a small irony to call them Carlist mules since they, unlike their former owners, hardly cared whether or not the Bourbon monarchy was restored to the Spanish throne, but small ironies were permitted the men who had to wield water buckets and dung shovels on behalf of the greater good for they surely got little else for their labor.

There was even a committee—an ad hoc unit comprising both mayors, Avena from the PSUC and Quinto of the POUM—that saw to the needs of the convalescent draftsman. He needed very little, it turned out: the rental of a small cottage at the edge of town, an old woman to clean once a week, some beans and vegetables from the market which he cooked for himself.

He was a small, shabby man, Señor Cardona, self-effacing and painfully polite. In his forties, he suffered from a weakness of the lungs, and came to San Ximene now and again throughout the summer and fall to escape the smoke and dust of Tarragona, where he had a small business that produced engineering designs and specifications. He could often be seen through his window, bent over a table, making long, perfect lines on graph paper with infinite care. “You must call me
comrade,”
he would admonish them with a shy smile, but nobody ever did. The ancient instincts of San Ximene
recognized true gentility when they encountered it, and
señor
he remained. There were some—there always are—who would have had him turn his hand to minor labors for the cause, but their niggling was as chaff in the wind against his self-appointed protectorate, the older women of the village. Thus the mayors, Avena and Quinto, merely shrugged when somebody complained. If the harsh, dry air of San Ximene aided the recovery of Señor Cardona, he would have all he could breathe. Besides, he paid for everything—the pesetas were not unwelcome—and paid, in fact insisted on paying, just a little more than the going rate.

He was, above all, a nice man.

Dark-skinned, with thick sensual lips and a gently curved nose, the brown eyes—soft and deep—of a favored spaniel, and a few strands of hair combed hopefully across a balding head. He wore always a hand-knit sweater beneath his camel-colored jacket—the night air was crisp—and the canvas shoes of a comfortable man. He did, it was true, speak an odd Spanish, rather formal and stiff, but that was undoubtedly due to a childhood spent in Ceuta, down in Spanish Morocco. Was there a touch of the Moor in him somewhere? This was suggested, but it did not matter. It was simply impossible not to like him, and he quickly became a pleasant fact of life in San Ximene, appearing every week for a day or two, then going back to Tarragona in his rackety Fiat Topolino.

Though humble and self-effacing, he could not have been entirely without importance, for he was occasionally sought out by two of his employees. In San Ximene, it was a curious notion that something, anything, could be so important that it would not wait a day or two, but Señor Cardona was a city gentleman, and it went without saying that city gentlemen were occupied by matters of considerable gravity.

Los Escribientes de Señor Cardona
.

San Ximene rather honored their part-time resident with such a title—
Señor Cardona’s clerks
. It had a bit of a ring to it. Of course, the country was at war, and it seemed that nothing was the same anymore. The men who visited Señor Cardona were proof of that.
Clearly, these were not the usual
escribientes
. One might have expected pale, doleful fellows, their spirits turned gray by years of sitting at desks and writing in ledgers. Or minor tyrants, of the fat-assed, preening variety, little lordlings who made life miserable for poor people with their nasty rules and educated meanness.

These
escribientes
were quite another matter. But with so many men fighting at the front, a businessman, it was supposed, had to make do, had to take what he could get. The younger one, with the pale skin, black hair and blue eyes, conducted himself with reserve and courtesy. Some of the village daughters quite liked looking at him, a feminine perception of banked fires warming their curiosity. No, it was the older one who bore thinking about, the older one who caused the local gossips to trail their nets.

The women in black who met at the well at sundown had a ringleader—Anabella was her name, she looked like the get of a mating between a monkey and a sparrow—who led the daily pecking sessions.
El Malsano
she called him, tapping a forefinger against her temple. The unwholesome one. “He has snakes in his brain,” she said, “and they bite him.” One of the younger women crossed herself when she said it, though that gesture was now very unwise indeed.

Others were less colorful in their descriptions but gave him something of a wide berth. What sort of
escribiente
walked about in a drunken stupor? His index and middle fingers were brownish yellow with nicotine stains, his lank hair hung carelessly over his forehead, and the lines in his face were too deep for his years, like a film star, perhaps, whose career one day had faltered and died.

He was a Frenchman, probably there was no more to it than that. Serreño had overheard the clerks speaking French as they hauled a bundle of blueprints from the trunk of their long-hooded black Citroën. These were not, however, the same French people so much in evidence at the Aguilar household in summers past. None of that particular grace remotely touched them.

So it went, back and forth, as it does in a small place where people have known one another all their lives, the convalescent draftsman and his two French clerks, something to talk about.

In the tide of village opinion there was one dissenter, and he
made his views known only once and was silent thereafter. This was Diego, the POUM representative to the Committee for the Carlist Mules. One hot, slow afternoon in September, he watched the Citroën crawl slowly up the white street toward Señor Cardona’s cottage. When it had passed, he spat out the barn window and nodded to himself, affirming a private theory. “Russians,” he said.