The Exile (34 page)

Niños robados
– stolen children. A crime disguised by those involved as one of life's tragedies. Until the rumours began once democracy was re-established, fuelled by the mounting suspicion of bereaved parents. The slow emergence of cases where parents were reunited with a long-lost child, the news spreading disquiet as thousands of other parents realised what might have happened to them.

Hearing the testimonies at first hand was raw and brutal. The woman talking to Isabel broke down, unable to continue. In the shadows at the back of the room Galíndez found herself dabbing her eyes with a tissue as she listened to the woman's grief.

It was getting late. Isabel saw the janitor waiting by the door, ready to lock up the building, and brought the meeting to a close, thanking the parents for giving voice to their suffering, explaining how the investigation would make politicians aware of the issues and, hopefully, pressure them to act. It was a moving speech and the audience rose to their feet, cheering Isabel as their new champion. Many rushed forward to embrace her, others waited, more reserved, wanting to thank her with a few private words.

When all the parents had gone, Isabel strolled between the lines of chairs to the back of the hall, her eyes flashing, pleased at a job well done. She was beautiful, Galíndez thought, watching her. A beautiful person in every sense.

Isabel saw the tissues in her hand. ‘Did it upset you, Ana?'

Galíndez looked down, composing herself. ‘It makes me so angry.'

‘You know what they say,' Isabel said. ‘Don't get mad, get even. Find the people who stole those babies.'

‘You were brilliant,' Galíndez said, getting to her feet. ‘They loved you.'

‘It made them feel better for now but the effect will soon wear off. I just hope we can track down some of the people responsible.'

‘We will.' Galíndez glanced at her watch. ‘It's getting late. Can I get a lift back to the university to get my car?'

‘Why not come back with me and let me cook you something? We can drive in together in the morning.' Isabel slipped an arm around Galíndez's shoulders. ‘You look like you could use some cheering up.'

Galíndez leaned against her, feeling the warmth of Isabel's breath on her hair, the soft weight of her hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes, seeing an image of herself, buried in the smoking rubble of Guzmán's
comisaría
. She pulled away. ‘Don't touch me.'

Isabel looked at her in surprise. ‘What's wrong?'

‘This,' Galíndez muttered. ‘We're colleagues. It's not professional.'

‘I didn't mean to offend you.' Isabel's voice was brittle. ‘I'll drop you at the campus.'

They walked to the car without speaking. Around them, the city throbbed with the noise of traffic.

Isabel sat behind the wheel, staring ahead.

‘Look, it's not you—' Galíndez began.

‘God, don't talk to me in clichés,' Isabel cut in, ‘I made a mistake.' She reached for the ignition key. ‘I won't make it again.'

The university grounds were hidden in shadow as Isabel pulled up by the entrance to the faculty car park. As Galíndez got out, she leaned back into the window. ‘The thing is—'

‘No, Ana María, I got the message the first time,' Isabel said. ‘Forget it.' She accelerated out of the car park, scattering loose gravel into the darkened shrubbery.

Slowly, Galíndez walked to her car. Behind her, she heard a screech of tyres and turned, thinking Isabel was coming back. But it wasn't her, just a pale blue people carrier heading towards the centre of the campus.

She climbed into her car and sat for a while, trying to think how she could explain things to Isabel. But these were things she couldn't explain to herself. It was best not to try. There was no room for anyone else in her life. She bore his mark now, that long pale scar down her left side: Guzmán's brand, indelible and contaminating.

She leaned forward and opened the glove compartment, reaching for the plastic tube of painkillers. She shook a couple of tablets into her hand and swallowed them. Slumping back in her seat, she looked out into the warm night, seeing the shadowy campus, its paths and kerbs illuminated by pale slanting light.

She sat quietly, resting her hands on the wheel, wondering if these feelings would ever pass. In the mirror, she saw the dark tower of the faculty building. The cleaners were turning out the lights and as she watched, the detail of the building was gradually erased, floor by floor, until only the small emergency lights in the stairwells were visible.

17

FRANCE, OCTOBER 1954, ST JEAN DE PIED DE PORT

Guzmán slowed as the bend ahead revealed another vertical drop behind a flimsy wooden fence.

‘That's the road to St Jean on the right,' Ochoa said, glancing at the map on his knee.

‘About time.' Guzmán gave him a dark look. ‘You're not still worrying about us crossing the border, I hope?'

‘It was you who said we had to keep a low profile,
jefe
.'

‘And we are,' Guzmán said. ‘But since I'm in command, we're doing it my way.'

‘Going into France after a bunch of smugglers isn't going to be low profile if the French authorities find out.'

Guzmán hunted in his jacket for a cigarette. ‘I want to know why the Çubiry have been supplying arms to El Lobo. If that's all right with you, Corporal?'

Ochoa stayed quiet, looking at the passing sprawl of white houses, their red-tiled roofs glowing in the early morning sun. Soon the clusters of buildings grew more numerous and, in the distance, against the green mass of the foothills, they saw St Jean de Pied de Port, an uneven line of rooftops shrouded in mist.

‘What's our plan for today, sir?'

Guzmán slowed, seeing a large crowd a couple of hundred metres further on, walking towards the village. ‘I'll see what I can find out about the Çubiry from the locals. There's bound to be someone in need of a few pesetas.'

‘They use francs here.' Ochoa saw Guzmán's expression and wished he'd kept quiet.

‘Peasants are peasants, Corporal. They want money no matter where it comes from and if I want a lecture from you on the currency of effeminate European countries, I'll ask for it.'

‘What do you want me to do in St Jean, sir?' Ochoa asked, changing the subject.

‘I want you to take a look at the goods yards near the station. Look out for any merchandise with Çubiry labels that's bound for Spain and make a note of the address. Do you speak French?'

Ochoa nodded.

‘Then tell me what that says.' Guzmán pulled to a halt by a large gaudily painted sign.

‘There's a fiesta of Basque sport today,' Ochoa translated. ‘Wood-chopping, stone lifting and ram fights.'

‘
Jesús Cristo
, I'd rather shoot myself in the leg. I can throw stones any time.'

‘The sign also says there's food and drink available all day, sir.'

‘In that case, I'll start there. If there's drinking, it might make the locals more willing to chat about the Çubiry.'

‘Let's hope so.'

‘Fucking hell, cheer up, will you?' Guzmán snapped. ‘We'll check out the Çubiry and then go back to Spain later tonight.' He slowed to a halt as they reached the crowd bustling to the village. ‘Be back here at seven thirty, I'll park over there by the war memorial.'

Ochoa slammed the door behind him. In a few moments he caught up with the crowd and melted into the throng, turning up his coat collar, another country bumpkin come to town for the day. Ochoa was a useful man to have around, Guzmán thought, though his persistent melancholy was irritating. He was probably still pissed off at his wife for running away. He'd get over it, they always did. Apart from the ones who ended up blowing their brains out in a lonely hotel room, of course.

Guzmán parked by the war memorial. Making sure no one was watching, he slipped off the shoulder holster and hid it with the Browning under the driver's seat. If he was stopped by the French police, he didn't want the complications that would arise when they found he was armed. The French were prissy about things like that, especially if they involved members of the Spanish secret police. Still bearing a grudge about Franco's support for the Nazis, no doubt, the petty bastards.

He got out of the car, glad to stretch his legs after the long drive. The trees were starting to shed their leaves and the village had an autumnal feel. As he crossed the bridge over the river, he saw a bar on the far side, its terrace crowded with noisy customers, and decided a drink would be in order. Today was a fiesta, after all. Pushing his way through the scrum at the bar, he ordered beer and a sandwich packed with links of
txistorra
, the thin Basque sausage. The spicy meat was delicious and he wolfed it down and ordered another.

From the terrace, Guzmán noticed a stream of people heading up the road towards a field where large signs announced the Basque Sports Day. It was a popular event, judging from the number of people going in that direction. He finished his beer and followed them.

The field was crowded. A line of big canvas marquees ran along one side and he inhaled the aroma of meat cooking on charcoal braziers and improvised griddles. In the centre of the field, some sort of competition was about to begin. To make sure he was able to enjoy the spectacle fully, Guzmán wandered into one of the tents and bought a large beer before joining the crowd waiting for the start of the contest.

The contest involved several sturdy men lifting a large rock, the winner being the one with the most lifts. The rules were easy enough to grasp, though as entertainment Guzmán found it absurd. The other spectators, however, were entranced. Then again, watching paint dry was probably the highlight of these peasants' sporting calendar, he guessed.

After a couple more beers and some lamb chops, Guzmán found himself much better disposed towards watching two sweating yokels exert themselves to ridiculous levels of physical discomfort while the spectators ate and drank to excess around them.

Something nudged him in the ribs and he turned, annoyed to find a short, swarthy peasant huddling against him. The man gave him a smile consisting mostly of gums. Guzmán stared at him. ‘Fuck off, you inbred bastard.'

‘Ah,
Spanyol
?'

‘No, I'm Napoleon, you moron,' Guzmán said evenly. ‘
Hablas Español
?'

The man nodded, not understanding a word. ‘
Spanyol très bien
.' He grinned. ‘
Les Espagnols sont forts, mais les basques sont plus forts
.' He pointed to the two men in the ring, grunting and straining as they raised vast stones above their heads. You had to give them credit, Guzmán thought magnanimously, they were strong. Strong and relentlessly boring.

Guzmán and his unwanted new friend abandoned their conversation, distracted by a commotion on the far side of the field where a raucous group of men were tramping across the grass. Guzmán thought they were gypsies at first but as they came nearer, he saw the gaudy waistcoats and tooled leather riding boots. The fashion sense of the Çubiry Clan was becoming annoyingly familiar.

The man at his side tugged his sleeve, suddenly alarmed. ‘
Allons-y
.'

‘Get off my arm.' Guzmán spoke slowly in Spanish, raising his voice so the man could understand. Freed from his annoying company, he turned back to watch the stone lifting.

Someone touched his arm and he turned, thinking his toothless friend had returned.

‘
Merde
, I thought so. It's my friend from La Cueva.' Etienne Çubiry gave Guzmán a yellow-toothed smile. ‘Did you bring your whisky?'

‘It's going to be about a month until we get another shipment,' Guzmán said. ‘I'll bring a few barrels for you to try once I know the date of the delivery.'

Etienne nodded. ‘
C'est bon
. We have an office near the station, ask for me or my father.' One of his gang called out, beckoning him to the drinks tent. Etienne grinned, ‘
Excusez-moi
, I go now to get drunk, it's a fête, after all, no?'

Etienne hurried after his companions and Guzmán noticed their sudden animated conversation as he caught up with them. Some of the men looked back at him. Guzmán returned their sullen looks as he sipped his beer, deep in thought. And what he thought was that the first one of them to try anything would get his glass in their face.

‘Excuse me, monsieur?'

Guzmán turned and saw a small, stocky Basque, sporting a long thick beard.

‘
Perdón
,' the man said in a low voice. ‘My name is Fermín Etxeberria. I couldn't help but notice you speaking to that French gentleman just now.'

‘I wouldn't call him a gentleman,' Guzmán said as Etienne and his pals disappeared into one of the tents. ‘What's it to you?'

The man glanced round, nervous. ‘I can tell you a lot about him if you're interested.'

Guzmán realised he'd found an informant.

‘That's very kind. You're a good Christian soul helping a stranger, is that it?'

‘No one does something for nothing, I'm sure the gentleman understands?'

‘Only too well,' Guzmán said. ‘How much?'

‘I could tell you plenty with a drink or two inside me,' Etxeberria said. Raucous laughter came from the drinks tent. Clearly the Çubiry were getting warmed up.

‘We'll go over there.' Guzmán pointed to a tent where a man was basting lamb on a griddle. He was unsure about Etxeberria. If people sold information cheap, it was usually because it wasn't worth having. On the other hand, since it was cheap, he might as well hear it. And in any case, the lamb smelled so good it would be a crime not to try it.

The tent was crowded with farmers and shepherds, filling the air with the fug of black tobacco and the musky odour of their animals. Etxeberria asked for
patxaran
, which pleased Guzmán enormously since it was dirt cheap. He ordered brandy and a plate of the lamb, beaming at the ruddy-faced cook as she gave him a large plate of roast meat, the skin brown and crisp, the meat pink and glistening, surrounded by soft roasted garlic cloves and red peppers.