Castro's Dream (19 page)

Txema walked quickly past Lorea’s open door but her voice clawed at him from behind. He hurried on along the corridor and shut himself into his office. By the time he got to his desk she was knocking.

No! he shouted. Not now!

There was a pause.

Is everything all right?

Fine. I need some peace.

He sat down in his chair and watched the door slowly open.

What is it? she asked.

She was wearing her dress with the dice motif. He had once made the mistake of telling her he liked it and now when she wore it, her self-satisfaction galled him.

Nothing, he said. I have to make a call.

She stepped into the room.

You look pale. Are you all right?

Her head was tilted slightly to one side and her straight black hair obscured her face a little.

Txema’s shoulders fell forward in defeat. He glanced at the engraving of the whaling scene hanging on the wall opposite his desk. The shafts penetrated the whale’s body from every angle while the boat balanced on the crest of a great curling wave. In the next instant all the men would be drowned.

I met Astrid Arnaga just now, he said.

Here, in the village?

We had a drink.

What did she say? she asked, taking another step into the room. Her eagerness deterred him. He sat back in his chair.

I want you to have Anxton follow her, he said.

Now? Today?

Yes.

Good.

Lorea smiled. She did have a lovely smile.

Off you go
,
he said, putting his hand on the phone. I have to make this call.

Lorea made a balletic turn, causing her dress to swing outwards and revealing, for an instant, the backs of her thighs, then stalked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Txema sat for a long while with his hand on the phone, his mind free of intent. He stared, unseeing, the sounds of children playing on a hot day coming through an open window. Suddenly there was an explosion and glass shattered all around him. Txema leapt from his chair and dived under the desk. He sat there, his heart pounding, watching the pelota ball roll along the parquet towards him. Txema crawled out from beneath the desk and picked up the ball from among the shards of broken glass. He walked over to the shattered pane, and hurled the ball, with the full force of his anger, into the group of children gathered beneath the window. He could feel the blood pumping in his temple. One of his well-kept secrets was that anger had always affected his vision. He looked down, as though through a tunnel, at the gaping children gathering around the comrade who had been wounded by the returned missile. Txema realised that his hands were shaking when he picked up his car keys from the desk. He drove both hands into his pockets and walked out of the room.

Txema pulled into the car park of the beach that the French called the ‘Chamber of Love’. He had spotted Gomez’s battered Renault 12 parked close to the steps that led down to the beach. He was ten minutes late. He walked past a family of four in bathing suits, hobbling barefoot on the burning concrete. He was too hot in his dark suit and he regretted his choice of a meeting place.

The blind man was in the passenger seat, his window down. Txema did not look inside so he did not see Gomez. He stood beside the car, facing a showy sea. On the horizon clouds were gathering. The bathers were cramped in a corridor of about ten metres wide marked out by two red flags and under the watchful eyes of a handful of lifeguards slouching on their look-out platform. Obedience was indeed a miraculous thing.

Itxua’s voice was rasping.

What can I do for you?

He had prepared his opening line and he would not change it now.

I have some good news about the retirement home, he said, keeping his eyes on the sea.

This was not strictly true. On paper there was no room in the new retirement complex that was being built at the entrance to the village but Txema was confident that for the right price, someone would give up their place.

That’s good. It’s time for me to come home, Itxua said.

It is, Txema told him. It is. Then he added, You know Mikel’s out.

Of course, Itxua said.

He’s disappeared.

What do you mean by that?

Txema paused.

He called on the day of his release and then nothing.

How long ago was that?

Three days ago.

You can’t say a man’s disappeared after three days.

Perhaps you’re right. I’m just wondering why he should be hiding from us.

What makes you think that he is?

This is hard for me to say. He paused. He could hear Itxua breathing noisily. I was the first to defend him when people started saying he’d been turned around.

What are you saying? he barked.

Old and maimed, Itxua was still a formidable man. When Franco was alive he had jumped from a five-storey building in Bilbao to avoid arrest. His fall had been broken by a web of washing lines and he had got away with two broken legs. They had still arrested him and, it was alleged, tortured him for ten days. It was said that he had woken from a coma in prison hospital angrier than ever. Txema was sure Itxua still had close ties to the organisation. He pushed on.

The only reason I can find for him not getting in touch is that he’s turned grass.

I can think of other reasons, the blind man said.

Txema knew Itxua disliked him. Ever since the seventies, in the days when the military wing took orders from the political wing,
Itxua had considered Txema soft. While Txema was on the Executive Committee discussing Marxist method and setting targets accordingly, Itxua was making bombs and training commandos. Txema knew he thought him impure but in those days Itxua had to keep his mouth shut. After the schism the military apparatus started making all the decisions. If Itxua had not been blinded by a letter bomb he would probably have become head and Txema’s life might have been in danger. Calling him in now might well be like calling for fire on his own position.

If Mikel was turned around in prison, Itxua said at last, I’ll know just by talking to him.

I dread to think of the damage he could do, Txema said, looking out at the corralled swimmers hurling themselves at the waves.

He could do very little, Itxua said coldly. He’s had no contact with anyone since he went inside. But that’s not the point. As you know there is a policy.

Txema smiled then feared the blind man had sensed his pleasure. He opened his mouth wide and clicked his jaw. He ground his teeth at night and the constant friction sometimes made his muscles go into spasm. On some days he sat in his office, unable to close his mouth.

Policy, he repeated. Yes.

Policy was, death to informers. It was as simple as that.

Why did you contact me, Txema? Itxua said.

Txema hesitated, sensing a trap.

I thought, if anyone can find him, you can.

There was a pause. Txema listened to the blind man’s wheezing. He regretted his attempt at flattery.

Looks like rain, the blind man said.

Then he must have made some signal to old Gomez because the engine started before Txema could reply. He stood facing the sea until the sound of their car had died away. Then he turned and walked, this time without shame, back to his Mercedes.

Paco parked beside Bayonne cathedral. Lola had always found it inelegant and sombre. The stone was darkish pink. People pissed in the recesses of its walls. She walked along the town battlements towards the river. They had left the village under leaden sunshine. On this side, the sky was filled with churning cloud that looked like brown smoke. In the distance rain hatched the surface of the river. She could smell the dusty plane trees above her waiting for the rain, feel them straining towards it. As she walked into the narrow, pedestrian streets of the old town, the rain broke over her. It fell hard, drumming the stone pavements. It poured through her hair, blinding her. Soon her clothes were soaked and her feet were slipping in her sandals.

She stepped into the cluttered shop behind a middle-aged woman with highly colourful make-up and an auburn crew cut. The woman was looking for flesh-coloured elastic. Lola waited while she dithered over elastic of various widths. The man who served the woman seemed to be involved in her dilemma. Indeed he seemed in no hurry for her to make a decision. Each time she came close to choosing a calibre, he would throw in a further consideration to make her change her mind.

It all depends on how often you’re going to wash the garment, he told her. This elastic holds up well in the wash.

It’s not as attractive, mused the woman.

The man clearly loved his shop, loved opening the little drawers, and loved pushing aside display racks to get into nooks and crannies that might conceal more flesh-coloured elastic. At last the woman settled on 1.5 centimetres.

If you’re sure, the man said. You can always come back and change it, Madame. You know that.

When the woman left the shop, he set about restoring it to the same disorder it was in before his search for the elastic began. Lola watched him, wondering what could possibly explain this man’s link to the organisation. He was very small and thin.
Indeed, he must have had difficulty finding the grey work coat he wore, unless perhaps it had been made for school children. His wiry, sandy hair was clearly a toupee of some man-made fibre. Lola saw that his little hands were covered in eczema.

How can I help you, Madame?

I’m looking for someone. She had the photo that she kept in her wallet. She held it out. The man blinked at the photo with piggy eyes, then looked at her and shook his head.

Sorry.

Look again. Lola could hear the desperation in her voice and she could see that the little man already wanted her out of his shop. It was taken twenty years ago, she urged. You have to imagine this face, but older.

The man gave a cursory glance at the photo but his mind was already made up.

No. As I say, I’m sorry.

The little man stood there with his wounded hands clasped in front of him, looking at her patiently, a beacon of non-commitment.

Lola left the shop. She walked slowly through the empty streets letting the rain soak her again. She climbed into Paco’s car and shut the door. She sat in silence beside him until the glass had steamed up and they could no longer see out.

Kader had never seen a place so green, sunshine so golden, rivers so clear. It was like a video game he had once played. He and Amadou had played it for twenty-four hours, stopping only briefly to eat, piss or shit. They had not slept. When they had finally got to the end they had both felt depressed to be out of the game’s magical landscapes. He remembered sitting in silence in Amadou’s room, smoking good pollen in order to soften their return to the real world.

Kader had a grin on his face as he walked on his crutches up the main street of Astrid’s village. There was a space like a gigantic playground surrounded by trees. A group of old men in berets, each with a walking stick, sat on the low wall watching the children play. Kader felt an overwhelming sense of goodwill towards the old men and the kids. It was as if he had a new heart.

He wanted to stop and sit down on the wall to savour this feeling but the urge to see Astrid’s face again was too strong and he walked on. She had not exactly sounded enthusiastic when he had called her but she had given him her address and directions to the bus station in San Sebastian and Kader thought she might be one of those rare women who, like his mother, did not like the phone.

When he had stepped off the bus he had been given directions to her house by the first passer-by he had asked, a woman with long, grey hair held back with a pink hairband. She had a wispy beard and moustache that had made Kader smile. She had smiled with him and pointed up the hill.

La
ùltima,
she had said.

Kader decided that he would go and get her and they would come and sit on the wall together, their backs to the sunshine. When he came in sight of the last house the dog bite on his heel was throbbing, his hip ached and the knife wound on his shoulder itched beneath the dirty bandage. In spite of the pain, he was overjoyed. He stood in awe, looking up at the grand stone façade,
with all its big windows and its dark blue shutters and the roses growing all over it. He looked down the street. A woman carrying a baby on her hip was crossing the road. He heard the bell sound as she opened the door of the bakery. Then he looked the other way at the cobbled street running into a path that disappeared into a wood. He pushed open the iron gate and limped up the path to the front door.

Lola wanted Paco out of her room. She was in bed and he was sitting naked on the edge of the bed with his back to her. The sight of his great shoulders hunched forward irritated her. He turned.

Why did that happen?

It was my fault, she said.

Paco turned his head as if he had received a blow, then turned back.

What do you mean, your
fault
?

I needed to be held.

I could have held you, Lola. Why didn’t you ask me just to hold you? he pleaded.

I can’t explain, Paco. I’m probably not who you think I am.

He shook his head. I don’t judge you, Lola. I want to understand.

Lola tried to keep the anger out of her voice.

I needed to anaesthetise myself. I’m in pain.

About Mikel?

About my life.

He just needs time, Lola.

That’s what Txema said.

Paco turned his back on her. His weight was pulling the bedclothes taut, trapping her legs.

I’m going now.

Lola watched him stand. She watched this poor, naked giant stoop to gather up his clothes with the gestures of a maiden.

I’ll come back tomorrow after my shift, he said.

She nodded, unable to meet his eye. His slowness and gentleness made her want to hit him.

She glanced up and smiled at him, keeping her mouth closed.

When he had shut the door behind him, she stared towards the open window at the blue sky. Paco was still seeping out of her and she could smell his spit on her face. She was growing cold but she could not move. A solitary phrase turned in her mind:
I
am
Lola
and
I
have
a
cunt.
She pulled the sheet up over her shoulders.

The sound of the doorbell woke her. Her head had been lolling at an uncomfortable angle and her neck was aching. She did not move. Someone who did not know them was ringing at the main door. The bell rang again, more insistently this time. Knowing that the portico concealed visitors from her view, she went next door to Astrid’s room and looked out. A boy on crutches was making his way down the stone steps.

What do you want? she called out in Spanish.

The boy looked up at her, head thrown back.

I don’t speak Spanish, he called in French. He grinned at her. You must be Lola.

Who are you?

Carlos, he said. I’m a friend of your sister’s.

She’s not here.

Where is she?

Gone. I don’t know. And she closed the window.

He leaned on the bell.

When she opened the front door Kader was unprepared for what he saw. She was wearing nothing but a silky pink nightdress with her nipples showing through. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess and her eye make-up was smudged. She stood and scowled at him, one fist on her hip. He thought there was something of old Arnaga in the way she held her head, stiff and proud.

Who the fuck are you?

Kader. I’m a friend of Astrid’s.

I thought you said Carlos.

You can call me Carlos if you prefer.

She stared at him as though trying to work something out, then she shook her head and closed the door.

Kader used the rubber stopper on his crutch as a knocker.

He banged firmly until she opened up again.

What do you want?

I’ve come a long way. Can I come in for a coffee or something?

Lola turned and walked away, leaving the door open. Kader hobbled after her into a dark hall with antlers on the walls. The place smelt of dust and made him want to sneeze. He followed her past a wide, wooden staircase and into a brightly lit kitchen.

Lola padded over to the sink, her bare feet making a sticking sound on the linoleum. He watched her arse as she filled a saucepan and put it on the gas.

He pulled a stool from under the table and sat down. Then he began to prise the old bandage from his congealed knife wound.

So you’re Lola, he said.

She faced him.

Who are you? Where are you from?

I’m from Nanterre. Outside Paris. But I was born in Trappes, like Anelka. Do you watch football?

No, she said. How do you know Astrid?

She gave me a lift. He held out his arm. She treated this wound. But I didn’t change the bandage so it’s going septic.

You came to have your bandage changed.

But she was not smiling.

Kader went on peeling off the bandage. Lola stepped forward.

It’s not septic, she said, looking at the wound.

She smelt of sex.

Are you a doctor? he asked.

No I’m a dancer. I teach salsa.

I’ve got a friend, Kader said. A black kid called Adel. He loves that Latino shit. Goes to all the clubs in Paris. He started because he liked to hit on the white women who go to those classes, but then he got into it for the dancing. He knows all the moves.

She looked at him with new curiosity.

Adel who?

I don’t know his surname. He’s from Mauritania.

Adel Kamara, she said. He’s a pain in the arse. He tries to put African rhythms into every
passe.
Calls me a fascist because I stick to Cuban salsa. I like him, though. He makes me smile.

She had not smiled yet.

It’s healed, she told him, pulling back. The movement revived the smell. You’ll have a neat scar to remind you of the event. Is it a knife wound?

No, he said.

She picked up the bandage from the table and walked away, winding it into a ball. She opened a cupboard under the sink and threw it into the bin. Then she took the boiling water from the stove and made two cups of tea using tea bags. She put his cup
down on the table and wrapped her hands around her own. Kader averted his eyes from the stains on her nightdress.

You should go back to Trappes, she said. If you’ve come on a love quest for Astrid, you’ll hit the wall. She’s not capable of love.

Nanterre, he corrected her.

She can’t love because she has to be in control.

Can you tell me where I can find her?

No I can’t, she said. Then she stood up and swept out of the room.

When she had gone, he went to the cupboard under the sink. He opened the bin, pulled out the dirty bandage, the only souvenir he had, and put it into the pocket of his ruined tracksuit. He poured the tea down the sink, stood for a moment, looking about him, then picked up his crutches and went out through the back door.

Upstairs Lola got down on her knees and reached for the wooden box under her bed. It had a transfer of an Old English sheepdog on the lid. She sat with the box in her lap and began to look through the memorabilia she had stored there as if in readiness for this moment. Here was understanding.

A school photo. Black and white. Summer term, 1971. She was nine. Astrid was fourteen. She peered at herself, looking carefully. Straight back. Open smile. A few teeth missing. A little girl standing beside her best friend, Angela Sharpe. She tried to remember. She had loved Angela, her freckles and her lisp and her fluffy pink dressing gown. She and Angela had made perfume together out of squashed petals, then they had smoked together on the roofs, then they had gone looking for boys in the village near the school. Lola liked knowing that Angela was in a ditch close by. She could sometimes hear Angela’s giggle resounding in the dappled wood. Astrid thought that Angela was simple. I like Georgina Fiennes better, she would say. She’s interesting.

Lola looked for Georgina Fiennes. She found her in the back row: a tall girl with flaxen hair parted in the middle and falling like austere curtains on either side of her face. Astrid was right. Georgina was more interesting than Angela. At thirteen she drew anti-nuclear symbols in felt tip on her jeans and had read Plato’s
Republic
.
Angela had gone into decline when Lola left her for Georgina. She gave up boys and spent all her time in the pottery room. She grew chubby and plain and could not meet your eye. Lola ran the tip of her finger over Angela’s beaming moon face.

Astrid was in the same row as Lola at the far end. There was the same sad look in her eye.

She pulled out one of the press cuttings about the campaign for Astrid’s release. There was a photo of Astrid taken at the press conference. She was sitting behind a microphone, looking dazed. She scrunched up the cutting in her fist and threw it across the room. She had paid too dearly for Astrid’s sacrifice. She had believed all this time that this was what it had been. But now it was no longer clear. Astrid had been to prison instead of her; this she knew. At the age of seventeen, Lola had borrowed Astrid’s ID card to get into an X-rated film. Absurdly, she had forgotten which film it was. When the police had searched Mikel’s apartment after the Donosti commando fell, they had found the card and Astrid had been arrested and charged with logistical support. Astrid and their father had both insisted that they say nothing about Lola having borrowed it. Lola was to be protected at all costs. To this day, she didn’t know why.

She pulled out the only photo they had of herself and Astrid with their father. She knew that her mother must have taken it with her Hasselblad because the image was square. It was a winter’s day in their garden in Donostia. She recognised the brutally pruned plane trees in the background. There was frost on the ground. Her father was wearing his stiff camel-hair coat. He had a hat with a narrow brim and a scarf crossed between his lapels. Lola remembered that Eugenio had chosen the lawyer who was to defend Astrid. The choice had been a bad one. Astrid had been accused of logistical support but there was no proof of this, other than her I.D. card among Mikel’s things. Instead of debunking the charges, the lawyer had built a complex ideological argument around the idea that Astrid was being persecuted simply because she was from a politically engaged family. Nothing, of course, could have been more maddening to the judge than the accusation that he was biased, and Astrid was sentenced to five years.

Lola looked at the photo again. She was still a baby, trussed up in a tartan coat lodged stiffly in her father’s arms. Astrid was also
wearing a tartan coat that looked too short for her and tights, baggy at the knees. There was a gap between her and Eugenio and it looked as though his hand was fishing for her to come closer. The distance upset the composition of the photo. Unlike Lola and Eugenio, Astrid was not looking at their mother but straight at the camera. It seemed clear to Lola that the clue to her sister’s betrayal was there in that photo.

Lola was Astrid’s link to the outside world. This was clear. Astrid had never had any connection to either her mother or her father. She had come into the world and found it hostile and had set about trying to protect her little sister from it. The path Lola took had been marked out for her by Astrid. Whenever she had tried to step off the path, Astrid had coaxed her back. Mikel had been the only real threat to Astrid’s guidance. Lola leaned her head against the bed. She felt a new pity for her sister. Sacrifice came naturally to Astrid; she was afraid of life.