Tomb in Seville (15 page)

‘Do we have to bother about these things?’ Eugene wanted to know.

Of course we don’t,’ Ernesto said. ‘I think our pilgrimages should end and we’ll return to London.’

I
T MUST HAVE BEEN
evident to Ernesto within minutes of his happy reunion with his son that only the softest and subtlest approach to the problem of persuading Eugene to return home to England was likely to prove successful. By no possible interpretation of the word socialism could it have been alleged that Ernesto was in the slightest concerned with bettering the condition of the poor, or the problems of those in trouble with the law. Nevertheless his appreciation of the troubles involved at times of financial crisis in general was vast and varied. Was this an occasion when the power of money could be put to better use than it so often was?

Ayuda’s
survival was dependent on successful financing and Ernesto was convinced that what otherwise threatened to become a family problem could almost certainly be handled with the aid of a gambling syndicate with whom he had conducted mutually satisfactory business in the past.

‘You talk of raising money, Father,’ Eugene said, ‘but how? You mean here? In Seville?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Ernesto told him. ‘They don’t go in for charity here. Surely you know that. Only the priests get fat. To get a charity going of the kind you have in mind you’d have to do it from England. I could talk to a friend in one of the gambling syndicates who’d probably help.’

‘And you think there’s some hope they’ll agree?’

‘I think we might be able to put together some sort of a case. I’ve helped them out once or twice and they’d probably lend a friendly ear to what I had to say.’

‘That would be great.’

‘Here you’re a foreigner,’ Ernesto emphasised. ‘They don’t understand the workings of your mind, and therefore they mistrust you. The project as you have described it could go down fairly well back in England just because it’s the kind of exotic, slightly romantic thing that appeals to people who on the whole live dull lives.’

Soon after Ernesto’s arrival, I began to detect a mild attack of nerves spreading through the city. Within twenty-four hours of the first whispers of the words ‘Civil War’, people began preparing for the worst. Hawkers appeared on the streets selling first-aid kits containing bandages, ointments and a miscellany of surgical odds and ends. These included crutches and even a recent invention in the form of a small tool with antiseptic cream in its handle supposedly useful in emergency extractions of bullets. In a matter of days calendars had appeared in the street markets printed with double the usual number of non-auspicious days. Regular fortune-tellers operating in the markets had switched from small-scale personal happenings to prophecies concerned with the coming war.

Ernesto was in the hotel, playing with the dogs. He had got over the long journey by this time and I had rarely seen him more relaxed. ‘Did you happen to read your
ABC
today?’ I asked.

‘I got as far as the headlines. They’re good because at least they save time. Whether they know it or not they also tell you what not to believe, although it’s far from the intention.’

‘Did you read the story about the coming civil war?’ I asked him. ‘Do you really think it could happen?’

‘Let’s put it this way. I can’t think of any country in Europe where the likelihood is greater.’

Eugene arrived to join in the discussion with a typical left-wing point of view. ‘Is this anything to do with the workers’ struggle against bourgeois exploitation?’ he asked, and Ernesto shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It will be due to a loss of discipline among all classes. They are determined to fight each other. The Monarchists will be at the throats of the Liberal Republicans. The Reds will assassinate the Monarchists and vice versa. That will leave no one to be killed except those belonging to no political party who will naturally murder each other—even with no excuse. I hate to tell you this,’ the old man said, ‘but civil war is the only possibility. Did you read something in yesterday’s
ABC
about Franco? He was reported to have been seen within a mile of where we are sitting now. All the papers call him
El Caudillo,
which means The Boss. He comes here because they have the best riding horses, and he’s given out that he was christened in the cathedral—which isn’t true. If Franco takes over the Army he will bring the Moors in from Morocco.’

‘Just a moment,’ I said. ‘Does he speak Arabic?’

‘Better than most speak Spanish. In North Africa he’s already accepted as a mullah. All the Moroccan troops will be on his side. The day he’s accepted as Caudillo in Spain, the civil war is on.’

‘After what you have just told us, do you hold out any hope for Spain?’

‘Yes!’ Eugene broke in. ‘International volunteers from Britain, France, perhaps even Germany. They will come to defend democracy.’

The prospect of war was seen by most Spaniards as a national tragedy. It revealed itself in a sense of dread that could be postponed but never wholly banished from the mind. If Seville believed in the probability of conflict, that was enough. The time had come for Spaniards to brace themselves for the inevitable battles. Seville cast its mind back to the wars of the past and its citizens—or rather those that could afford to do so—began to turn their houses into little fortresses with steel shutters over the windows and concrete reinforcement of the walls. Some householders employed guards who invariably wore peaked caps to provide a somewhat official appearance, although they in fact looked little different to tramcar conductors—or even the exceptionally belligerent Assault Guards.

By protecting their houses the owners appeared only to increase their fears. People removed hidden weapons from their hiding places, loaded them, and were ready when the first shots were fired.

For a moment, however, the possibility of war was put out of Ernesto’s mind and discussions shifted to arrangements for returning home. Something was said laughingly about not having been able to do what we had set out to do, but the subject was awkwardly changed, although not before someone had blundered in with a reference to the unvisited tomb.

Incredibly enough, it was at this point, and to general astonishment, that what might well have been a fragment of the tomb was unearthed by a digger at work in the dry ditch behind the cathedral and sent on to us. It was brought to the hotel by a sacristan for our inspection. The chip was of clean, white marble, about four inches in length. The sacristan made a point of telling us that a number of such fragments had been recovered, all quite small and most somewhat stained. Ernesto was fetched to examine it and it was mooted that perhaps possession of a variety of such fragments might be reasonably acceptable as a symbolic visit to the tomb in its entirety.

There was something in Eugene’s manner at about this time to suggest that he was ill at ease. I would have been happy to return home without further delay, but my feeling was that he was in no hurry to do so.

‘Do you really like it here?’ he wanted to know, but I may have shown insufficient enthusiasm in my reply. When he came back to the subject I told him that I had preferred Madrid.

‘Didn’t you object to having to hold your hands up when we went for a stroll?’

‘It was all right if you didn’t have far to go. That is to say, apart from crossing the Gran Via on one’s hands and knees.’

‘I could have done without it,’ Eugene said. ‘Anyway, how about Seville? Do you like Seville?’

‘I know I shouldn’t admit to it, but as a matter of fact I do, I think it has a soul.’

‘I didn’t realise you’re a bible-buster after all,’ Eugene said.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s my Welsh upbringing. A tabernacle supper with poached eggs on Saturday nights. It leaves its mark. Still, all the same, you’ve managed to give Ernesto a case of nerves. He’s already checking on the trains. A Paris Express leaves the day after tomorrow.’

‘It’s all the same to me,’ Eugene said. ‘I’m ready to go whenever you like.’

‘But I’m not sure I believe you,’ I told him.

‘Well, you’ll see for yourself,’ he said. For a moment he seemed absorbed in thought, and when he spoke again it was with a change of tone. ‘If a real war breaks out here, I’ll come back.’

‘What on earth for?’ I asked him.

‘To fight against the fascists,’ he said.

‘And you believe there’ll be one?’

‘I’m almost certain there will,’ he told me, and I could see he meant it. Further discussion was almost incredibly interrupted by the return of the mounted
requetes,
this time having apparently doubled the number we had seen on the occasion of their earlier patrol. But what was to startle us most was the spectacle of a countryman, his arms roped behind him, being dragged at the tail of the last horse. ‘This,’ Eugene said, ‘must be what
El Debate
meant yesterday when it spoke of the necessity of establishing new disciplines.’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ I asked.

‘Usually what the Americans used to call lynch law. If you were unlucky enough to fall out with one of the bosses you got beaten up and thrown into the river.’

‘And you think they could get away with that here?’

‘Probably. The system worked well in Italy. They have just as many fascists round Seville now as there were there. They’ve even invented a fascist salute. You pat the inner muscles of your right arm and hold up your hand,’ Eugene explained.

‘Shouldn’t you tell Ernesto about this?’ I urged. ‘If we have to go home in any case surely we ought to make a move before the new fascists get busy. Otherwise we may find ourselves stuck here until further notice. In any case, I believe he intends to settle for the Paris Express.’

‘It’s all the same to me,’ Eugene said. ‘I’ll be travelling with you on the train.’

T
HE FIRST IMPRESSION OF
the train on which we were about to travel northwards through Spain was that it had captured and retained a little of the vivacity of the streets of Seville—to say nothing of their homely odours. Passengers were burdened with immense packages (one had arrived with a small dog wrapped up like a parcel), and a large but fragile box had split open to release a shower of miscellaneous objects including a selection of feminine underwear. Having settled, the passengers pursued every form of activity compatible with the journey. A painter of ‘three-minute portraits’ had secured a corner in which to work and set up an easel next to a priest guarding a pile of missals in ragged-edged covers. Innumerable small children were being pacified by bribery or threats. A fighting cock, fitted with a shining spur, had been crammed into a cage from which it continued a strangled outcry. The odour, apart from that of humanity forced into over-small space, was of ripe cheeses. Despite the stresses of such international journeys, the travellers had clearly set out to be affable, and it was evident that a high standard of good humour would be maintained.

But it was to be a long journey and the first few miles of the almost empty spread of the Andalusian outback under a long drawn-out high noon threatened monotony. Time passed, and at last there were splendid views for the traveller to enjoy. Enormous swamps had been created by the rainstorms that had burst the banks of the Guadalquivir. Charred stacks remained of a village fired by lightning. Mountains with labyrinthine caves were yet to be explored, and the small town of Campobello had warning signs painted in yellow on the walls to signify that it had been visited by the plague. Best of all, with their offering of limitless interest, were the forests and lakes filling the long terrestrial depression that joins Seville to Cordoba and few such areas of Spain were likely to keep the traveller so ardently awake.

Dawn reorganised sprawling torsos and straightened cramped limbs, except in the case of Ernesto, who had stayed awake, reading the
Meditations
of Marcus Aurelius. Daybreak spread like a slow conflagration into all corners of the landscape. The black smoke of morning fires twisted into the sky, unchained dogs hurled themselves against invisible intruders, and a peasant defecated beneath a flight of partridges in search of mountain hiding places.

Eugene and I studied our maps. Somewhere in the vicinity—give or take a dozen miles—the railway track, avoiding the hills, ravines and forests which turned day into night, curved away between the Pyrenees and the sea towards San Sebastián.

‘We’ll be calling in there for the last time, I imagine, and putting up at the Royalty?’ I said.

‘If they have rooms, why not?’ Eugene said. ‘Be nice to see Dorotea again, if she still works there.’

‘And even take a last stroll on the
paseo
with her, and a suitable friend if she happens to have one. We have to take flowers for Dorotea, whatever we do.’

An English-speaking passenger had overheard us and was keen to help. ‘No problem at all, sir. For Miss Dorotea flowers of all kinds are sold at railway station. In five spare minutes also, if you wish these people will make small poem and personal message for accompanying flowers. As fellow traveller, sir, I wish you success.’

The Paris Express, living up to its reputation, was on time to the dot at San Sebastián. The station counter was banked with exotic blossoms, and a telephone call revealed that Dorotea was still at her place of work. She said she would be delighted to see us again, adding that by a miraculous chance that particular afternoon happened to be free. It would be nice for us, she thought, to take in what was generally described as the splendid flower show at the park, and we were naturally equally enthusiastic. The meeting, however, after a short taxi ride to the show, had something about it that smelt of confrontation, confirming a suspicion that Ernesto was concerned only with our prompt and uninterrupted return to the United Kingdom. There was something in his brief conversation with Dorotea that seemed to conceal frigidity behind a token politeness.

At this moment a new complication arose. A messenger sent after us from the hotel presented us with a letter from a London newspaper that said, to Eugene’s amazement, that it had accepted two of his travel pieces and—even more to his surprise—expressed moderate interest in a description of the local
paseo,
which had apparently attracted a number of English visitors to San Sebastián. Mastering his fury, Ernesto was obliged to accept a delay in our departure. Dorotea bought a new dress and organised our inclusion in the parade, and Ernesto shut himself in his room and settled down to read biblical passages in archaic Spanish.