Lime's Photograph (26 page)

“That is an oversimplification, señor Lime. The Caudillo, blessed be his immortal soul, was a man of vision. He understood our torrid blood, our brutality, our capacity to kill, our fascination with death of which the
corrida
is but one example, our lack of tolerance, our machismo and our uncompromising pride. He saw it as his mission to heal the wounds inflicted by the fratricidal war and turn Spain into a modern European nation. And he succeeded.”

“I’m sure those who were tortured and executed are grateful for the undertaking. Spain was an abscess on the map of Europe. A strange relic of fascism, where Nazism survived long after it had perished in Germany.”

He didn’t get angry, but continued in the same subdued tone of voice.

“The alternative was chaos. There were powerful forces which wanted Spain to perish. Forces within and outside the country. The Caudillo’s vision was right. Spain had to follow its own course for many years in order to emerge from its past unscathed”

You could hear the echo of servants under other dictatorships. From Stasi informers in the former GDR to fascist executioners in many Latin American nations. They did it in service of a cause. They were just following orders. They bore no personal responsibility, and
they defended their actions until death caught up with them, because otherwise their lives made no sense. Sometimes it was hard to grasp that dictatorships could function only because thousands closed their eyes and thousands more participated in maintaining the oppression.

“Are you an historian?” I said.

He laughed.

“Of sorts. But we’re not going to discuss politics or history. I’m here to repay a debt to a man I respect.”

I was going to say something else about Franco, but the crowd began yelling and whistling so loudly that we couldn’t make ourselves heard. It was time for the third bull. This one was lame. It stood in the middle of the arena and when the bullfighter began working it with his cape it was clear that it limped badly on its left hind leg. The bullfighter looked up at the President in entreaty and soon afterwards a herd of steers entered the arena. The huge, angry bull turned into a meek cow, allowing itself to be lured out of the arena by the steers it recognised from the wide open spaces of the ranch where it had been reared. Now, as placidly as a sacrificial lamb, it left the arena in order to be killed by an electric shock to its forehead, administered by an efficient slaughterer waiting in the passageways under Las Ventas.

“One believes there is a way out, but all routes lead to death,” said the man at my side.

“You know my name. I don’t know yours,” I said.

“For the sake of convenience, you can call me Don Felipe.”

“Don Felipe. If you’re not an historian, what are you?”

Like my father-in-law, he preferred to talk in riddles. I couldn’t place his accent, but he sounded as if he came from somewhere in the south. I knew that he must have been an intelligence officer under General Franco, who had more secret services than medals. But he was slightly more loquacious than Don Alfonzo.

“Please don’t misunderstand,” he said, leaning towards me so that
I got the full aroma from his cigar. “I’m a supporter of democracy. The real purpose of our work was to combat communism and anarchism, so that Spain would be ready for democracy. It succeeded. We had many enemies. Bolsheviks, terrorists, separatists. Foreign agents attempted to undermine the authority of the State and the social order. There was great pressure during the 1970s as the Caudillo’s strength began to fail. Our enemies saw a breach in our defences and sent agents to incite those forces that desired chaos. I helped to monitor and stop these subversive forces. My speciality was the KGB.”

“Together with Don Alfonzo?”

“Don Alfonzo had his duties. I had mine.”

“Which were?”

“To defend the State and its institutions. To ensure that good citizens could sleep peacefully at night.”

“I thought that was my father-in-law’s task too.” I used “father-in-law” just to remind him who I was.

“Your father-in-law concentrated on the enemy within. My job was to endeavour to stop the foreign agents who infiltrated our nation.”

“The Russians?”

“Among others. The Soviet command liked to use Cubans. They fitted in better with the – what shall I say – the milieu.”

“OK,” I said and drained my glass. I would have ordered another one, but the substitute bull was sent in and the sale of drinks stopped as the ritual followed its established, predictable course. Now I understood that Don Alfonzo had worked for the internal security network, while Don Felipe had been employed in counter-espionage.

“You were one of the people who featured in certain reports,” he added.

“Reports?”

“Normal intelligence operations. Bugging, surveillance, covert searches of places of residence, material from informers. You know
what goes on.”

A buzz went round the bullring and I looked down at the sand as the band struck up the
pasodoble
. We were witnessing one of those moments of great beauty when bullfighting becomes art, and beast and man merge in a deadly embrace, when the bullfighter’s suit of light and the beast’s dark, blood-drenched pelt become one. It was the young Andalusian, not yet old enough to realise he was mortal. He used the red cape to draw the bull towards him in tighter and tighter circles so its blood stained his tight-fitting costume. The bull went straight for him, eager to attack, as he lured it with calls and small flicks of his wrist. You could tell that he wanted to stretch the moment for as long as possible, to continue his macabre, exquisite ballet for ever, the music and the rhythmic shouts of
olé
from the spectators a drug which drove him on. But common sense finally prevailed. With each pass the bull learnt a little more, and soon it would realise that behind the red cape there was a man, and you could see that its eyes no longer focused exclusively on the
muleta
, but that it sensed a soft body on the other side. The bullfighter executed a series of three passes, to the spectators’ noisy delight, and then fetched his sword.

“May the killing be elegant,” said Don Felipe respectfully. He was obviously an expert, an old aficionado.

The young bullfighter walked into the open arena, bowed and presented the bull to the ecstatic crowd. He positioned himself and drew the bull across in a couple of tight passes which I remembered were called
manoletes
, named after the legendary
matador de toros
from the 1920s. Then he lifted himself onto the balls of his feet and sighted along the blade while locking the bull’s eyes with the red cloth so it raised its bleeding hump of muscle, exposing the spot where the blade could penetrate to its inner organs. A hush fell over the arena, the bullfighter flicked his wrist and the instant stood still, frozen, for a long time. And then man and bull attacked simultaneously
and the bullfighter passed in over the horns and thrust deep, severing the artery in its neck. The bull sank to its knees, motionless for a moment, spewing blood, and then falling on its side as the assistant came in and delivered the final blow with one thrust of his short-bladed knife.

I got to my feet, joining the ovation for the young man standing with his fallen quarry, proud with the arrogance of youth. The scarves came out and, with the President’s permission, the two ears and tail were cut off and given to the bullfighter as a trophy before the mules dragged the bull round the arena to the sound of deafening applause, in tribute to the beast for its courage and bravery. I had forgotten how this barbaric spectacle could suddenly appear to be sublime, making you momentarily suppress your sympathy for the animal.

“Let us thank God for our good fortune,” said Don Felipe.

“Or Don Alfonzo for the tickets,” I said.

He laughed.

“Yes. And now we ought to leave. We were fortunate to witness one of those rare moments when art is born and dies before our eyes. That is unlikely to occur again today, or possibly ever.”

“I thought you had something for me.”

“I have. But we don’t need to sit here any more. Now it will only be disappointing, and I’ve checked that we’re not under surveillance.”

“And you’re sure about that?”

“You are going to have to trust me a little, señor Lime. Seeing as how I trust you. Let’s go!”

We went up the stairs and into the building. There were only a few people in the wide passageway under the sweeping arches. He hurried along to one of the many bars and bought two cognacs, and we went over to one of the arches from where we could look down through the opening to the square in front of the arena which was still swarming with people. The buzz of voices had become more intense.

“They expect our young Andalusian maestro to be carried out shoulder-high after the level of artistry he achieved,” said Don Felipe and handed me the
El Pais Suplemento
. We could hear the music starting up again inside the arena.

“I’ve put a surveillance report inside. It’s from an archive that doesn’t exist – officially, that is. I’ve removed the archive number, which could identify the report should it fall into the wrong hands, but you have my word that it is bona fide. I’m repaying a debt of honour. I’m breaking the law, I’m breaking my pledge of secrecy, I’m breaking my oath to the Caudillo never to divulge secrets about my work, but I feel for Don Alfonzo and mourn for his loss, which is your loss also.”

“What’s in it?”

“Read it. There are two men talking. One is called Victor Ljubimov. He was the cultural attaché for many years, but his real employer was the KGB. His area of responsibility was the Spanish Communist Party, the PCE. He was an agent, couriering money for the party, and helping to organise the PCE. As you know, the party was illegal before the transition.”

I nodded. He had used the word
transición
, which the Spanish used to describe the peculiar, dangerous years between General Franco’s death in 1975 and the first free parliamentary elections in 1977. Shortly before his death, Franco had authorised five executions. No one knew whether the King or those within the old regime would opt for democracy. The younger forces in the only party permitted by Franco would have to relinquish their own monopoly voluntarily and take Spain from dictatorship to democracy. They would have to do so without antagonising the army and vast security network, which would have resulted in a classic, Latin-American-style military coup. It was a heady and exciting period, and a dream to be a reporter in Spain at the time.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Don Felipe asked.

I nodded again and he continued.

“The PCE was under careful surveillance, but it was the Americans who found Victor for us. He speaks fluent Spanish and English. He was the KGB’s main contact with the PCE.”

“OK,” I said. “Who’s the other one?”

“Please, be patient with an old man,” he said. “The PCE –
Partido Comunista de España
. A large number of the party leaders lived in France or in Moscow, but in the 1970s a new generation was in the process of re-establishing the party within Spain. The PCE was extremely active in the universities and the trade union movement, and we lost access to parts of their underground organisation because the new, young communists were difficult to infiltrate. Of course, we knew that Moscow was trying to maintain control and influence, both through agents and by financing the party. I remember that time so well. Spain was in a state of revolution. There were many foreign agents operating here. Our own revolutionaries sensed what was coming, but many on the left didn’t think Soviet communism was what should replace Franco’s regime. Moscow was worried about that too. That’s the background you need to understand the transcript.”

“OK,” was all I said, and this time I waited patiently. He took a sip of his cognac and I did the same from my glass. My fingers tingled as I felt the soothing effect of the alcohol.

“We had Victor under surveillance. We collaborated closely with the Americans, of course. Were we not a bulwark against communism? Did we not accommodate their bases? When it came to the fight against the Bolsheviks, the Americans would have been willing to collaborate with Satan himself. The identity of the other person talking is, however, unknown to us. We gather that he is of German origin. That he is from the GDR and that he works for the Stasi. His assignment was to infiltrate the PCE. We don’t know the exact nature of his role – or if he recruited you, señor Lime.”

I looked at him astounded. I had not expected that.

“Me? I’ve never been a member of a party. He didn’t. I’ve never been asked by either the one or the other,” I said.

“Well, it’s of no consequence today. But Don Alfonzo considers it of significance.”

“I’ve worked as a photographer in the GDR, but I don’t know anyone and didn’t know anyone from the GDR here in Madrid.”

I knew Oscar of course, but he was from Hamburg and, as far as I knew, had set foot in East Germany only once as a very young man, when he went in on a one-day visa just to see what life was like on the other side. I didn’t regard Oscar as German at all, he had long since renounced everything to do with Germany and he had talked incessantly about becoming a Spanish citizen for years, always mocking me for refusing to consider giving up my Danish passport. He often said that we had made our homes and lived well in Spain, so we ought to go the whole way and become citizens of the country that had treated us so well. What did I think I owed Denmark?

I looked at him questioningly and after a pause he continued.

“I’ve got friends from those days. Contacts. Some active, others, like me, who savour the tranquil pleasures of the pensioner. I know the Soviet agent is still alive, but he left the service when the Soviet Union collapsed and he’s now a so-called businessman in Moscow.”

“Mafia?”

“He calls himself a security consultant.”

I could tell from the buzzing sound coming from down in front of Las Ventas, the music and the cries of
olé
drifting up from the sand, that the young Andalusian had been successful with his last bull, and I realised that Don Felipe, or whatever he was called, had timed it so that he would leave the arena at the same time as thousands of others. And now it looked as though the crowd would pour out of the main gate with the bullfighter carried shoulder-high, a
rare honour – an honour that would create total confusion.