The Exile (21 page)

‘It's fifteen per cent extra for a sea view,' Heráclito said. ‘I can't help with the issue of cleanliness.' He gave Guzmán a slightly affronted look. ‘This isn't the Ritz.'

‘Do what you can,' Guzmán said, turning to the exit. Outside, he took deep breaths of sea air to lighten his mood. That didn't help, so he lit a cigarette and walked down to the harbour, deep in thought. Aggressive dwarves were a problem he could do without.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS

Viana lay on the bed, watching the sun go down through the streaked glass. The phone rang and he answered at once. ‘
Buenas
tardes
,
mi General
.'

‘I've got a problem here,' Gutierrez said, dispensing with formalities. ‘I need you to pass on a message to Guzmán, telling him to get a move on with this Lobo business.'

‘I'll contact him at once,' Viana said.

‘You remember I told you Guzmán sometimes needs a nudge to get him moving? He's one of those people who respond well to pressure.'

‘Yes, sir. And you were quite clear about how I should apply that if it became necessary.'

‘Then get on with it, Captain,' Gutierrez snapped as he hung up.

From the window, Viana stared out at the city, the buildings vague in the feeble light of the street lamps. Around him, stark outlines of houses and tenements, blinds and shutters closed against the night. Empty balconies with caged birds rustling in the dark. Idly, he watched a car drive along the seafront. The car pulled up near the quay and a man and woman got out, their movements subtle and furtive as they leaned against the car. Money changed hands. Such a decadent city, Viana thought, watching them walk down onto the beach. No wonder General Mellado despised it.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN

Magdalena Torres stood in front of the full-length mirror in her apartment, surrounded by boxes and coloured tissue paper. She checked her appearance, appraising the combination of her new cashmere cardigan, the raw silk blouse from Paris and the skirt from Milan. She ran a hand over her sheer silk stockings, checking the seams were straight. After a last look in the mirror she decided that was quite enough vanity for one day. She looked good. She rather hoped the
comandante
would think so as well.

She walked to the window and looked out, seeing the evening sun turning the bay to silver with its fading light. Her watch said seven thirty. That gave her an hour before she met Comandante Guzmán in the María Cristina. She doubted he would be late to meet a lady.

Magdalena had drawn the curtains against the sun while she dressed and the humidity in the apartment was overbearing. A breath of air was just what she needed before dinner. Folding a lightweight coat over her arm, in case of rain, she left the apartment and went downstairs.

In the lobby, she noticed the
sereno
hanging around as usual, probably peeking in people's mailboxes. She glowered, thinking how repulsive he was with his furtive glances and lecherous expressions.

‘Going out, señorita?' Another of his faults: he couldn't look her in the eye.

‘Apparently, Señor Alvarez.' She saw no reason to be polite. As she opened the heavy iron and glass door, the sour odour of the street drifted into the lobby. Feeling the watchman's eyes on her back, she turned and gave him an icy look before letting the door swing to with a crash. Still annoyed, she set off down the street towards the Calle Mayor, her heels tapping out a brisk staccato rhythm on the cobbles.

Inside the building, Alvarez sat in the dank vestibule that served as his office. A tiny room that smelled of sweat and cleaning fluid. He would be there all night, as he always was, in case any of the residents forgot their key. Some didn't even take a key when they went out, knowing he would be here to let them in. He remembered what Señor Bárcenas said when he gave him the job, that beggars couldn't be choosers. At the time, Alvarez hadn't realised he was on a par with a beggar. He knew it now.

This was his reward, he thought bitterly. Sitting in this cramped box next to a toilet night after night. His reward for being part of Alfredo Bárcenas's death squad during the war. It wasn't much of a reward for what he'd done. Bárcenas treated him as a lackey, making it clear it wasn't for the likes of him to question why Bárcenas wanted to be kept informed about Señorita Torres's movements. He wanted it, Alvarez did it. It was that simple.

He picked up the phone and dialled a number.

Bárcenas answered. ‘
Dígame
?'

‘Señor Bárcenas, it's Antonio.'

‘Who?'

‘Antonio Alvarez. Señorita Torres just left. It looks like she's going to the harbour.'

‘Well done, Antonio.'

‘Would there be a little reward, Señor Bárcenas?'

‘All right.' A wheezing sigh. ‘If you hurry, you can watch.'

‘
Gracias
. Could I have the money for a drink or two as well?'

Alvarez was talking to himself. Bárcenas had hung up.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, BAR ACUARIO

Magdalena walked by the harbour, looking at the masts of the fishing boats against the setting sun. She paused to watch the crews preparing to sail on the evening tide. As the boats began to leave the harbour, she continued along the quay and climbed the flight of stone steps up to the Bar Acuario and took a seat overlooking the bay.

Below, set in the cliff, she saw the aquarium and remembered when her father used to bring her here as a child. They were not pleasant memories. It was here her father had struck her for the first time when she pointed out one of the fish was actually a crudely painted piece of wood on a wire. He never cared for the truth. Perhaps that was why he and Franco were friends.

The bar was busy and the terrace echoed with the sound of conversations. The smell of frying squid and prawns from the kitchen made her mouth water.

A waiter came rushing to her table, short and fat, beaming his pleasure at seeing her, the way he had since she was a girl. ‘
Buenas noches
, Señorita Torres. All alone?'

‘I've got a date later, Enrique. I just thought I'd watch the sunset for a while.'

‘An excellent idea, señorita. Will the señorita take something?'

‘
Sí, gin y tónica
, please.'

‘And something to go with it? A few gambas and some calamari?'

‘Of course, thank you.' She never turned down his suggestions and he never suggested anything she would want to refuse.

Enrique brought her a gin and tonic so strong the tonic was just a faint echo on her tongue. He arranged a plate of prawns and squid on the table, chiding her to eat. Magdalena needed no prompting and drenched a prawn with lemon juice before biting into the salty batter, idly wondering if the
comandante
would like it here. She imagined he would, since they had much in common. That was most unusual in the men she associated with.

At eight fifteen, Magdalena pushed aside her empty glass and prepared to leave. She waited until Enrique was busy before hurrying away, leaving a tip he would otherwise refuse.

The sun had almost set as she made her way along the quayside. The harbour was empty now, the fishing fleet a series of dim lights rising and falling out at sea. The streets were dark and she walked quickly, though not too fast, since she had decided to be ten minutes late. The
comandante
seemed the sort of man who would want to establish himself before a lady arrived. Probably he'd have a drink and a cigarette to freshen up. Ten minutes was adequate time for him to do that without him wondering if she'd stood him up.

Heading into the
casco viejo
, she made her way through the warren of narrow streets, taking the most direct route to the Hotel María Cristina. She stumbled on the cobbles and slowed, not wanting to break a heel. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt, she was sure. The
comandante
would probably take the opportunity to have another drink. Lost in these thoughts, a few minutes passed before she noticed the sounds in the shadowed street behind her. Heavy footsteps that slowed with hers, picking up pace as she began to hurry. She was being followed.

Most people had made their way home for dinner by now and the streets were empty. She paused to look back, seeing only dark buildings, the windows lit by muted lights. She began walking faster, aware of the men following her, the sound of their shoes sharp on the cobbles.

She made a decision. At this rate, they would soon overtake her. She couldn't walk quickly, let alone run in these heels. But if she couldn't outrun them, she could outwit them. She turned a corner and headed into the tangle of narrow alleyways leading to the Iglesia de Santa María. Somewhere down these cobbled lanes she would lose her pursuers and double back to the María Cristina to meet the
comandante
. She was damned if a few would-be thieves were going to spoil her night out.

The street was swathed in darkness and Magdalena stumbled as she turned into the tight confines of another alley, expecting to see the Gothic outline of the church at the far end. She paused, struggling to understand why the familiar surroundings were so different, her stomach tightening as she realised she'd taken a wrong turn and blundered into a blind alley. Anxiously, she turned to retrace her steps.

Two men stood at the entrance to the alley, staring at her in silence, knowing they were blocking her only escape route. Behind them, she heard the sound of someone approaching slowly, accompanied by a dull rhythmic beat. As he turned into the alley, she saw him: a dark corpulent figure, moving awkwardly, supported by his cane.

‘
Buenas noches
, Señorita Torres.' The words were exhaled rather than spoken: pursuing her required an effort unwelcome to such a large man.

‘Señor Bárcenas.' Her tone suggested she had just stepped in something unpleasant.

Bárcenas leaned on his cane, breathing heavily. ‘I told you pride goes before a fall, señorita.' The effort of speaking made him cough. ‘And what a fall it's going to be.'

Magdalena glared at him, furious. ‘How dare you follow me like this?'

‘I dare to do a lot of things, señorita.' The words bubbled in his throat. ‘Women should know their place. If they don't, they have to be punished.'

Her eyes glinted with fury. ‘
Hijo de puta
, lay a hand on me and you'll suffer.'

‘That foul mouth needs cleaning,' Bárcenas hissed.

‘Stay away.' She stepped back, noticing the other men edging towards her.

Bárcenas paused for breath, illuminated by pale light from a third floor window. ‘I want a share of your business,' he wheezed. ‘I saw the announcement of your father's death in this evening's newspaper. You're on your own now.'

‘True,' she agreed. ‘But even so, I reject your offer.'

‘You've no choice,' Bárcenas said. ‘You won't be able to do much at all after what's going to happen to you.'

‘And what's that?' She took another step away from them, feeling rough bricks press against her back. The wall of the building. She was trapped.

Bárcenas rested his hands on the cane. ‘Show her, Carlos.'

Carlos came forward, the sallow light glinting on the glass jar in his hands.

‘Are you collecting insects? How appropriate for a lizard like you.'

‘Let her see,' Bárcenas said, excited now.

Holding the jar away from him, Carlos tipped a few drops of liquid into a pile of newspapers scattered around the garbage bins. A sudden hiss, smoke rising from the paper.

‘Acid,' Bárcenas panted. ‘You'll have none of that pride when your face looks like a painting left out in the rain. Luckily for you, you won't be able to see it.'

Magdalena opened her bag. ‘I assume this is about money?'

‘No money on earth will buy you a new face,' Bárcenas whispered.

‘I have seventy thousand pesetas here.'

‘I don't care. You're going to suffer,
puta
.'

She pressed herself against the wall, still rummaging in her bag.

‘Do it, Carlos,' Bárcenas gasped. ‘Make sure it goes in her eyes.'

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL MARÍA CRISTINA

Guzmán lit another cigarette before looking at his watch again. It was five past nine. He had expected Magdalena to be late – that was what women of her class did, after all – but half an hour was pushing it. He leaned back in the leather armchair and looked around the dimly lit lounge. It was a quiet night, a few couples at the tables, some solitary guests on stools at the bar. And no Magdalena. He looked at his watch again. Maybe he'd been wrong about her.

That was disappointing. Magdalena Torres intrigued him: she was argumentative, stubborn and with a tendency towards aggression. He found that combination attractive. It reminded him of someone, though he couldn't think who.

As he reached for his brandy, his hand brushed the red rose lying on the table, its stem wrapped in tissue paper, an impulsive purchase from a gypsy near the seafront. If Magdalena didn't turn up he could always track down the gypsy and get his money back.

His stomach rumbled. Yet another disappointment: he'd booked a table at one of the town's finest restaurants and the thought of the menu made him salivate. It would be a tragedy to arrive late and find all the specials had gone.

‘Señor Guzmán?' An apologetic voice. He looked up.

The waiter gestured towards a phone at the end of the bar. ‘A call for you, señor.'

Guzmán got to his feet. No doubt this was Magdalena, wanting to cancel. He went to the bar and picked up the phone, anticipating rejection.

It was Magdalena, calling from a phone booth. Her voice was high and strained. That was full-blown hysteria for a woman as composed as her. He heard her words pouring down the line, ‘...followed me... acid... my face... blind me... Bárcenas... three of them.'