Castro's Dream (20 page)

Txema sat high in his Mercedes, facing the newly cut field of wheat, and waited for Lorea. The sun was a huge red ball in his wing mirror and the field was alight with it. Lorea had always thought she wanted to be married to him but he knew better. When the subject came up he liked to tell her that she would be a puma in a cage if she married him. This usually softened the blow.

When she arrived, Txema watched her pick her way through the stubble. There was no doubt: this woman made him feel powerful. He hoped he was not about to throw that away.

She opened the door and climbed in and leaned across to kiss him as she always did. Then she sat back and flipped open the sun visor, looked at her reflection in the mirror and faced him with her smile.

Txema turned on the engine.

I thought we were staying here. The disappointment he heard in her voice thrilled him. Where are we going?

We’re going for a drive.

What for?

Txema did not answer. He drove out through the gap in the hedge and took the road that led into the mountains.

Lorea crossed her legs and began to sulk.

I have something to tell you, he said.

She uncrossed her legs.

What?

He glanced at her. She was wearing a pale-blue sundress with thin straps over her narrow shoulders. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wanted to touch her long neck.

Did you go to San Sebastian today?

Of course. It’s Friday.

Lorea went into town every Friday for a facial.

Did you swim? he asked.

Yes.

He smiled at her.

What is it, Txema? You’re being strange.

I’m about to put my life into your hands, Lorea. I want to make sure I know you.

What are you talking about?

But he did not reply.

He drove through the last hamlet before the border and stopped in a lay-by beside a stream. The sound of rushing water came through the open window.

Where are we? she asked.

We’re near a farm that used to belong to a man called Joakin, Txema told her. He hid Mikel and me for a night before we tried to cross the border.

Lorea always paid particular attention when he spoke of Mikel. Mikel to Lorea was an object worthy of hatred. He had been an historic member of the organisation and he had become a grass. She had never doubted this fact, probably because her imagination was more susceptible to tales of betrayal than to accounts of heroism.

Neither of us slept, Txema went on. We smoked and talked all night. The next evening Joakin took us in his truck to the café in the village and we met the two
mugas
who were to take us across the border.

Lorea shifted uneasily in her seat.

You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Txema.

He leaned back into his door to get a better look at her. He had no choice. This woman was the only person in the world who could deliver him from his fear. He had stolen a large sum of money from the organisation. It had been collected from Basque companies, a month’s worth of revolutionary tax. Every single day Txema saw himself being killed. He saw himself being shot expertly in the back of the head with a silenced Browning. They could get him anywhere: in his bed, in his car, in his office. Someone with a black balaclava over their face would come up to him and ask him, Are you Txema Egibar? And he would nod or shake his head and whatever his reaction, however cowering or dignified, they would pull their weapon and shoot him in the head and the heart. Lorea loved him. Lorea was a fierce animal. If anyone tried to hurt him, she would attack, no thought for herself.

I want you to be my wife, he said.

She was looking at him now, her hand over her mouth.

I want to marry you, he said.

Txema reached out and took her hand. She was shaking. She never cried. She watched her hand in his, unable to look him in the eye, aware of how much harm he could do her. He pressed his lips to her hand to still it.

I brought you up here to tell you everything, he said.

Txema …

He kissed her hand again.

The money you took to Switzerland belongs to the organisation. It was revolutionary tax.

Lorea pulled her hand from his grasp. She looked at him now, her eyes wide with fear.

When the Donosti commando fell Mikel and I were both identified and we received orders to disappear. Months later, we were told to cross over to France and to take the money with us to give to somebody, living in Biarritz, who went by the name of ‘The Belgian’. When we began the journey, I was carrying the bag. We left with Joakin in his truck. When we got to the village it was ten-thirty on a Friday night. I didn’t know either of the
mugas
who were taking us across. They were brothers. Mikel had met one of them at a rally in Guernica. Txema nodded at a narrow wooden bridge that crossed the stream. We started walking from there, he said. It’s a public footpath now but it was barely a track then. That bridge wasn’t there. We jumped across. The money weighed a ton. Apart from the password, no words had been exchanged between us since the meeting. It was a clear, cold night in October. We could see our breath in the moonlight. We walked up a steep path through this old oak wood I’ve known since I was a kid. The trunks were all twisted and covered in moss and lichen. It’s supposed to be haunted. The ground was damp from recent rain so the climb was hard. The eldest brother led the way, then Mikel, then me, then the youngest brother. All of us were armed.

Lorea had stopped shaking. Her face wore an expression he had never seen before. She was listening wholly to him. Every part of her was attentive; all vanity, for the moment, had disappeared.

We were on a thinly wooded plateau, only minutes away from this pile of rocks where we were supposed to meet the other two refugees who were coming back the opposite way. They were to be escorted by our
mugas
to Joakin’s. At first, I thought it was a wild boar running through the undergrowth. The others scattered and I stood there, frozen. There he was, a man, four paces away, pointing an automatic weapon at me. He was in combat gear and his face was blacked out. His eyes were very white. A shot rang out. In that instant, the man’s attention wavered and I ran at him. He should have shot me but he didn’t. As I threw my weight at him, I remember thinking that he must be very young. He fell back like he was made of sticks. His head hit a rock. I didn’t think of the money then. I thought of Mikel.

He looked at Lorea, at her eyes, full of fear and pity, and he knew that she would never again look this beautiful to him.

I heard two more shots behind me as I ran towards the border. There were about five hundred metres of open country to cross, with only the occasional tree, too thin to hide behind. The place was flooded with moonlight. As I ran I was anticipating the shot so strongly that the back of my head ached. I went on running downhill. I kept running until I reached a pine forest growing on a steep slope. I dived into it. As I lay panting beside a tree, I thought of the money. It gave me a new energy. It made me brave. It took me hours to dig the hole with a piece of rock. There were roots everywhere. When I had finished my fingers were bleeding. I buried the bag under that tree and carried a rock from the plateau to mark the spot. When I left it was dawn. The money was mine. He squeezed Lorea’s hand. Now it is ours, he said.

She looked down at her lap. And Txema knew that he would stay with her simply for what he felt for her at this moment.

I want to feel safe now, Lorea, he told her. After the money disappeared, the organisation carried out an investigation. The two
mugas
were shot by the Guardia Civil up there on the mountain, so all they had were Mikel’s account of his arrest and my own testimony to the French gendarmerie. Still to this day, I don’t know what Mikel thinks. No one ever managed to get hold of a copy of his
cantada
as far as I know. When I was questioned in France by Iñaki, the man who trained me, and Koldo whom I trained, I told them that one of the
mugas
was carrying the bag. I said that the
Guardia Civil must have taken the money. I don’t know what Mikel told them.

Why didn’t you ask him?

He wasn’t listening. He was looking out at the narrow bridge. One thing I do know, Astrid Arnaga will lead us to Mikel.

Lorea’s eyes had lost all trace of tenderness. She was herself again.

Anxton is on her, she said. She’s at the Hotel Lagunekin. She hasn’t moved all day. She smiled at him. He has the bike. I’ll do the rest.

Txema was suddenly helpless with desire. He reached over and caught her behind the neck.

After only two nights, Mikel was growing attached to the smell in his van. Castro’s fur gave off a scent like burnt sugar and his warm breath, which enveloped them both at night, made human breath offensive to him in its blandness. The blind man’s breath was making him lean back a little now as they sat together at the bar in a café in the village of Ascain where he had been working at the market. Castro seemed like a model of good digestion in comparison to this creature.

You don’t listen, Mikel. Do you?

Mikel gave the old man a light slap on the shoulder.

I’m afraid I may have lost the knack of human intercourse.

Don’t touch me.

Forgive me …

It’s something I have been unable to tolerate since I lost my sight.

I understand.

You don’t!

Castro jumped to his feet and snarled, baring his teeth, neck outstretched, eyes savage.

Easy boy, Mikel soothed.

Castro lay down again, keeping the man with the stick always in his sights.

Mikel faced Itxua with new attention.

What can I do for you, old friend?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m here to find out what I might do for you.

Castro growled.

I’m doing as well as I could have imagined. Mikel reached down to scratch his dog between the ears. I have a job I enjoy and an honest companion. He sat up and looked at the blind man who was listening carefully, his head jutting forward. Mikel could see the faces of all the Basque prisoners reflected in the old man’s glasses. The faces came from the poster on the wall behind him.
Thank you for asking, he said.

Itxua leaned forward and the faces of the prisoners disappeared.

I offer my help, Mikel, because you are a superior man …

Mikel shook his head. An unpleasant taste had settled in his throat.

You are a man of great integrity. I’ve always known this and I’m not alone. Your life should have been different. You were made for leadership. I have often puzzled over the circumstances that led you to lead the wrong life.

Mikel shook his head again and looked away. He caught the barman’s eye and nodded at him. He was hungry now and wanted his supper. Itxua was an unwelcome intrusion from the past. He should have known as soon as the old man walked up to his van and invited him for a drink. But he was so changed, so diminished, Mikel had taken pity on him, had imagined that the venom had gone from him.

The old man took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Gently Mikel took the packet, lit one for him and put it between his lips. Itxua drew deeply on the cigarette.

I’m here to talk to you about Txema Egibar.

What about him?

I’m here to warn you that he is no friend to you.

Mikel smiled.

You’re probably right.

He is a disgrace!

Itxua spat these words. Here was real bitterness, Mikel thought. He looked down at Castro and saw that he too wanted his supper.

I must tell you something about myself, he said. I’ve been in prison for most of my life. And I
have
learned something. Probably only one thing. The importance of leading a simple life.

Itxua turned his head away in disgust.

A simple life. What is that? How is it possible to lead a simple life in a complex universe, unless you are either mad or a simpleton? He stubbed out his cigarette in a tin ashtray on the bar.

I may well be mad. I cannot rule that out.

The old man made a guttural noise that set Castro growling again.

That dog is a liability, he said.

Mikel let his hand dangle so that Castro could lick it. He wanted the old man to leave now. He could feel anger gathering and he knew that anger had put the sour taste in his throat. Castro stopped licking his hand and lay down.

What exactly do you want? Mikel asked, his voice cold.

Itxua leaned towards him so that Mikel found himself enshrouded in his foul breath again.

I want to help you. You should know that Txema would like you dead.

Mikel closed his eyes.

I don’t want to hear this, Itxua. And he stood up. This is shit, he said.

This, this, this. This is your life, Mikel. Your duty, your heritage.

Fuck my heritage. I’m a free man.

Itxua smiled.

Have you have forgotten that there’s no such thing as a free man?

Well what on earth are you all fighting for then?

We’re fighting for our dignity.

I’m afraid I don’t know what that means. But I think that whatever it is, I’m not interested in it. It’s certainly not worth killing or dying for.

You’re not mad, Mikel. You’re a simpleton.

Mikel slammed his hand down on the bar catching the edge of the tin ashtray which clattered to the floor. Castro jumped up.

Itxua stepped back. Mikel reached out to support him.

Don’t touch me! Keep your dog away from me.

Mikel clicked his fingers and Castro came to heel.

The old man seemed to be quivering with rage. Mikel watched. He was dimly aware that the longer he stayed in his company, the more he would pay.

Listen to me, Mikel, Itxua said, trying to soften. I am your friend. I have known you since you were a child. I want to help you. But the anger was still there in his mouth, in his purple gills. Txema has what does not belong to him, he went on. You must get it back.

Get it back? And give it to whom?

Don’t, Itxua began. Then he stopped. Don’t, he said again, shaking his head.

You know, for years I wondered if Txema had that money, Mikel said. I wondered in prison for a long time and then I stopped wondering. I realised that I didn’t care whether he did or not. I thought, if he does, I feel sorry for him. He can’t spend it and he’s living in fear, which is a worse prison than the one I’ve known.

That money doesn’t belong to him.

Who does it belong to? He waited, but Itxua said nothing. Mikel saw that he had retrenched. It belongs to the Basques who earned it …

Who earned it through collaboration with the occupying forces and exploitation of their people, Itxua said. I personally have never doubted his guilt, he went on. But proof is of course needed. There have always been a few who thought it was you. But they tended to be Txema’s lieutenants. I knew when I saw you in that van of yours and I caught the stench that you live in that it couldn’t possibly have been you.

Mikel longed to leave but knew it was important to hear the end.

Txema has been careful, the old man went on. He’s a disciplined man, I’ll say that for him. Setting up an import-export company covered the purchase of the café, the villa his mother lives in and that ridiculous car he drives. All those purchases were investigated by people who know about fraud and nothing was found. We believe that he gets advice from someone who once advised us and who is now living in Venezuela.

Ah, there it was, the ‘We’ Mikel could no longer abide.

The man’s alias is ‘The Belgian’, Itxua said.

I’m afraid I can’t listen to this, Mikel interrupted. I wish no disrespect to you. But I must go.

You will go when I have finished.

I’m sorry, Mikel said.

We have a copy of your
cantada,
Mikel.

I don’t give a shit.

It is in safe hands. We know you did no wrong.

Itxua. You can tell ‘We’, they can do what they like with my
cantada.

Itxua grabbed his wrist and clamped against the bar.

If you don’t testify against Txema, Mikel, then you’ll put yourself in danger.

Mikel looked at the hand gripping his.

Let go of me.

Castro was snarling. Itxua let go. He was making a kind of smile that looked like a gash in his face.

You can go, he said, relenting suddenly. Of course you wouldn’t betray Txema. You’re one of us.

Mikel hesitated, suspicious of the change of tone.

Just then Castro trotted out through the open door of the café. He thinks I should leave him the last word, Mikel thought. And he’s right.

Mikel followed his dog back to the van and began counting the takings for that morning. The unpleasant taste still hung in his throat, though he chain-smoked to try and cover it. Castro slept fitfully in the back. Occasionally he would puff air out through his flews, his flank would quiver and his paws would twitch. Mikel looked up to see Itxua walking across the deserted square to a beige Renault 12 parked next to the church. A street lamp jutting out from the church wall lit the scene. He watched the driver climb out and help Itxua into the passenger seat and he recognised his former lawyer, Gomez Igari. He saw them drive slowly away. How could a couple of old men still have so much harm in them? He turned back to the hardbound notebook his employer had given him. He tried to put Itxua out of his mind. He enjoyed writing in neat capitals between the columns: article, quantity, cost. It was simple, sane work.

Castro was panting. The sock was slowing him down. As he ran, he tried to shake it off. Every time his bad paw struck the pavement his left eye twitched with the pain. He was running through a town that smelt of fish. The salt in the air made him thirstier still. His tongue lolled as he ran. He came to an overturned dustbin. Rotting fruit. He plunged his nose into the refuse and jumped back, yelping in pain. The bee in its death throes clung to his nose. He shook his head wildly, spraying saliva. There was no food and no master. He found himself on the beach where he had trodden on the deadly metal thorn. He walked, head hanging, to
the sea and dipped his throbbing nose in the water. He lapped twice then lay down in the sea and let the water wash over him. As he lay there he saw a man walking towards him across the sand, his dark figure distorted by the heat. When he drew close Castro saw it was the man with the black glasses and the stick. Again, he bared his teeth, but the man called him and spoke to him of food in a good man’s voice. And Castro followed him along the beach, keeping his distance until they reached the park where the children play with the ball and it was night and the place was lit up with lights that blinded him. He blinked, trying to avoid the light, but wherever he turned it shone into his eyes. All the time the man talked to him in his good man’s voice and Castro kept blinking against the light, waiting for the food that he could smell now, and he whined for joy. Then the lights went out. At first there were spots in his eyes and he could not see. Then he saw: his master, lying on the hard ground, his body open. The man with the black glasses was standing behind his master’s body, calling him forward. Eat, said the bad man, and Castro saw butcher’s bones lying in his master’s body, big bones with flesh on them. But his master was alive and calling him: Good boy, Castro. Eat. And Castro began to yelp and cry. Then something gripped his throat and he snapped his jaws shut.

It’s all right, boy. Mikel soothed. You’re alright. He could see fear in the dog’s eyes. He put his hand on Castro’s chest. His heart was racing. You’re alright, boy. Come on, let’s walk.

He locked the van and they walked through the empty market place, Mikel waiting for Castro while he sniffed at the debris and then took the path, scattered with boulders, that led through the chestnut grove. A harvest moon hung low in the sky and Mikel tried to enjoy the night breeze and the smell of freshly cut hay. He hummed ‘Desperado’, a song that he had always loved, but he could not escape the sensation that Itxua, his voice, his rationale, was polluting his mind.

He stopped humming and talked to Castro:

What exactly do they want? They want the money back, right? Castro shot off through a gap in the beech hedge.

No doubt, Mikel thought, making him denounce Txema was simply a way of putting pressure on him to give up the money in
exchange for his life. Then they would kill Txema afterwards. And probably me as well, he said aloud. Castro was at his side again, trotting unevenly. What do you think, boy? Will they kill me too?

Itxua had wanted him for a leadership position; something in the public eye like the refugee committee. Mikel gave a short laugh at the idea.

Whatever it was that had been holding his anger at bay then gave way. Mikel made a fist and punched hard at a tree trunk. He felt nothing for several seconds, then smiled at the pain and the sight of the blood blooming on his knuckles.