Winter in Madrid (65 page)

The secretary ushered Harry into Hoare’s office. He had not been inside the luxurious room since the day he arrived. The ambassador was standing behind his desk, dressed in a morning suit, his thin face pink with anger. He frowned at Harry.

‘Is he the only one here?’ he snapped at the secretary.

‘Yes, ambassador.’

‘I cannot
believe
all the translators were allowed to go to that reception.’

‘Mr Weaver’s just left, sir, he was the last. I’ve tried phoning the Spanish Academy but their phones are down.’

Hoare gave Harry an icy look. ‘Well, you’ll have to do, Brett. Why aren’t you at the reception?’

‘My fiancée’s here, getting the documentation for our wedding.’

Hoare grunted. He waved the secretary irritably away. ‘Where’s your morning suit?’ he snapped at Harry.

‘At home.’

‘Then you’ll have to borrow one from here. Now listen. I’ve been trying to get an interview with the Generalísimo for weeks. He keeps me waiting, refuses to see me, while von Stohrer and the Italians are in and out of there every five minutes.’ Hoare’s voice was full of petulant anger. ‘Then out of the blue I get a message he’ll see me this morning. I must go, there are important matters to raise and I need to make my presence felt.’ He paused. ‘I read Spanish of course, but I’m not quite fluent.’

Harry wanted to laugh, with relief that it wasn’t trouble and at Hoare’s posturing; everyone knew he spoke barely a word of the language.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So I’ll need a translator. I’d like you ready in half an hour, please. We’re driving out to El Pardo. You’ve translated for junior ministers, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. And some of Franco’s speeches.’

Hoare shook his head irritably. ‘Don’t refer to him like that. You mean
Generalísimo
Franco. He’s the head of state.’ He shook his head.
‘This is why I needed an experienced man. Go and get ready.’ He shooed Harry away, like a troublesome insect.

I
T WAS A LONG
drive out to the palace in the north of the city that Franco had appropriated as his residence. The car drove out into the countryside, the road following the Manzanares river as it flowed cold and grey between high wooded banks of skeletal trees. Sitting in the back with Hoare, Harry glanced up at the sky; it was still cloudless, icy blue. He hoped desperately there would be no more snow before tomorrow.

Harry had borrowed one of the spare morning suits they kept at the embassy and returned to Hoare’s office, then walked with the ambassador to reception. Sofia, sitting waiting, looked at them with astonishment. He went over and explained quickly where he was going while Hoare glared at him impatiently. When he mentioned Franco’s name, Sofia’s mouth tightened. As they left the embassy he felt her eyes on them.

The ambassador sat riffling through a file, making notes with a black fountain pen. At length he turned to Harry.

‘When you’re translating make sure you convey the
exact sense
of my words. And don’t look the Generalísimo in the eye, it’s considered impertinent.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hoare grunted. ‘There are photographs of Hitler and Mussolini on his desk. Don’t stare, just ignore them.’ Hoare ran a hand through his thin hair. ‘I’m going to have to sound quite harsh about all the pro-Axis propaganda in the press. But you keep your voice formal, unemotional, like a butler. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If the Generalísimo was a reasonable man he’d be thanking me for the extra wheat I’ve persuaded Winston to let them have. But reasonable’s the last thing he is. All this is sudden, very sudden.’ Hoare produced a comb and smoothed down his hair.

Pictures passed through Harry’s head: the woman foraging through dustbins, arrested when her dress blew over her head, the wild dogs attacking Enrique, Paco clinging to the old woman’s corpse. Now
he was actually going to meet the man who had created this new Spain.

The car came to a little village. It had been turned into a barracks, there were troops everywhere; the soldiers peered into the car as it ran alongside a high wall. The driver pulled up at a pair of tall iron gates guarded by soldiers with machine guns. He handed over their papers to be checked, then the gates were opened and they drove slowly through. The guards gave the car the Fascist salute.

El Pardo was a three-storey building of yellow stone surrounded by wide lawns, white with frost. Moroccan guards with lances stood by the flight of steps leading up to the entrance; one came down and opened the car door for them. From somewhere Harry heard the sad howling cry of a peacock. He shivered; it seemed even colder out here.

An aide in civilian clothes met them on the steps and led them through a series of rooms full of eighteenth-century furniture, opulent but dusty. Harry’s heart began to beat faster. They came to a large door flanked by more Moorish guards, their brown faces impassive. One knocked on the door and the aide ushered them in.

Franco’s office was large, full of dark heavy furniture that made it gloomy despite the sunlight coming through the tall windows. The walls were lined with heavy ancient tapestries showing medieval battle scenes. The Generalísimo stood in front of a large desk, the photographs of Hitler and Mussolini prominent alongside, to Harry’s surprise, one of the Pope. Franco wore a general’s uniform with a broad red sash round his plump middle. His sallow face had a haughty expression. Harry had been expecting presence but Franco had none; with his balding head, double chin and little greying moustache, he reminded Harry of what Sandy had said that first day in the Café Rocinante: he looked like a bank manager. And he was short, tiny. Lowering his eyes as instructed, Harry saw the Generalísimo wore built-up shoes.

‘Generalísimo,
buenos días
.’ Hoare said. He knew that much Spanish at least.

‘Excelencia.’
Franco’s voice was high pitched and squeaky. He shook Hoare’s hand, ignoring Harry. The aide took up a position beside Franco.

‘You requested a meeting,
excelencia
,’ Franco said softly.

‘I am glad to be able to see you at last,’ Hoare said reprovingly. He wasn’t intimidated, you had to give him that. ‘His Majesty’s Government has been very concerned by the support for the Axis in the newspapers. They are virtually inciting the Spanish people to war.’

Harry translated, concentrating on keeping his voice even and unemotional. Franco turned and stared at him then. His brown eyes were large and liquid but somehow blank. The Generalísimo turned back to Hoare with a shrug.

‘I am not responsible for the press, your excellency. Surely you would not wish me to interfere with it?’ He gave Hoare a wintry smile. ‘Is that not the sort of thing the liberal powers criticize us for?’

‘The press is controlled by state censorship, Generalísimo, as you well know. And a good deal of the copy comes from the German embassy.’

‘I do not concern myself with the press. You should speak to the interior minister.’

‘I certainly shall.’ Hoare’s sharp voice cut like a file. ‘It is a matter my government regards most seriously.’

The Generalísimo shook his head, the wintry smile back again. ‘Ah, excellency, it saddens me, these impediments to the friendship of our countries. If only you would make peace with Germany. Chancellor Hitler does not wish to see the destruction of the British Empire.’

‘We shall never allow the Germans to dominate Europe,’ Hoare replied abruptly.

‘But they do, ambassador, they already do.’ A big antique world globe stood nearby. Franco reached out a small, surprisingly delicate hand and turned it gently. ‘The English are a proud people, I know, like we Spaniards. But realities have to be faced.’ He shook his head again. ‘Only two years ago, when he signed the Munich agreement, I thought your old friend Mr Chamberlain would join the Germans and turn against the real enemy, the Bolsheviks.’ He sighed. ‘But now it is too late.’

As Harry translated Hoare stiffened with anger. ‘There is no point in discussing this further,’ he snapped. ‘Britain will
never
surrender.’

Franco drew himself up, his cold look reminding Harry of his expression on the coins. ‘Then I fear you will be defeated,’ he said.

‘I wished to discuss the wheat imports,’ Hoare said. ‘Your government will need to apply for certificates to bring them through the blockade. We still control the seas,’ he added waspishly. ‘We need assurances none of the wheat will be re-exported to Germany, and that it will be paid for entirely by the Spanish government.’

Franco smiled again, a smile with genuine amusement. ‘It will be. The Argentines have agreed to accept credit terms. After all, we have no gold reserves, and we are not a gold-producing country.’ He turned slowly and looked at Harry, and though he smiled there was something in his eyes now that frightened Harry. ‘I was talking about that only yesterday, with General Maestre,’ the Generalísimo continued smoothly.

Oh God, Harry thought, he knows. Hoare told Maestre and Maestre’s told him.

Hoare gave the Generalísimo a startled look.

‘I do hope everything can proceed smoothly,’ Franco went on. ‘Otherwise –’ he shrugged again – ‘we would not want to look on England as an enemy, but it is always a question of how a power
acts
in its relations with us. In its open dealings and its secret ones.’ He raised his eyebrows at Hoare. The ambassador reddened. Harry wondered what Franco would have said if he had known about the Knights of St George. He gripped a table behind him for support.

I
N THE CAR
going back to Madrid, Hoare was furious. The meeting had gone on for another half hour. Hoare had discussed trade agreements and the rumours of lorry-loads of food being sent to France for the German army, but he had lost the initiative. Franco’s manner had been that of an injured party dealing with an importunate negotiator.

‘Wait till I see Hillgarth,’ he snapped, glaring at Harry. ‘I was humiliated in there, humiliated! That was why he called me in, to throw that bloody mine in my face. Just my bloody luck you were the only translator available. These adventures have got to stop! I’ve been made to look a fool!’ Hoare was almost hissing, his thin features a mask of fury. Harry felt a drop of spittle land on his face.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Maestre must have told Franco everything, after Hillgarth told him it was all a racket. Maestre’s made the Falange look stupid but he’s made us look a damn sight worse.’ Hoare took a deep breath. ‘Just as well you’re leaving soon. We must make sure the Generalísimo knows you’ve gone. Marrying some lower-class Spanish girl – I don’t know how you think that’ll help your future career, Brett. In fact, I should say
that
was pretty well finished,’ the ambassador added spitefully. He turned away and opened his briefcase with a snap, pulling out a file. Harry stared out of the window as the first suburbs of Madrid flashed by. This time tomorrow they would be almost in Cuenca and a few days after that they would be away from here. To hell with you, Harry thought, to hell with you all.

T
HERE WAS STILL SNOW
high in the Tierra Muerta, but below the quarry most of it had melted during the brief spell of warmer weather that had turned the camp yard into a sea of mud.

Yesterday when they paused for their rest on the way to work, Agustín had sidled up to Bernie as he looked downhill towards Cuenca. ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ he whispered.

Bernie nodded.

‘Pick up a sharp stone tomorrow morning, put it in your pocket.’

Bernie looked at him in surprise. ‘Why?’

Agustín took a deep breath. He looked afraid. ‘To hit me with. You should make a cut, draw blood, it will look more realistic.’ Bernie nodded and bit his lip.

Lying his pallet in the hut that evening, Bernie massaged his shoulder, which was afire with pain after the day’s work. His leg was stiff too; he hoped it didn’t give way going down the mountain tomorrow. Down the mountain. It sounded incredible yet it was real. He looked at the bed opposite. Establo had died two nights before, in great pain, and the other prisoners had shared out his blankets. The Communists in the hut were sad, subdued.

When morning came he felt groggy. He got up and looked out of the window. It felt colder than ever but there was still no snow. His heart began thudding. He would do it. Carefully he exercised his stiff leg.

At breakfast he avoided the Communists’ eyes. He felt shame again at leaving the other prisoners. But there was nothing he could do for them. If he got away he wondered whether they would cheer him or condemn him. If he got to England he would tell the world about the conditions here, he would shout it from the rooftops.

He lined up with the others in the muddy yard for roll-call. The
undulating mud had frozen and was covered with white frost, like a frozen sea. Aranda took the roll. Sometimes since Bernie had refused to be an informer, Aranda’s eye lighted on him at roll-call: he would pause for a moment and smile, as though he had something nasty in store. One day he would pick him out for something, but today wasn’t the day; Aranda passed on to the next name. Bernie exhaled with relief. You’ve missed your chance, you bastard, he thought.

Father Eduardo emerged from the church, looking tired and miserable as he usually did these days. It struck Bernie that his dark red hair was almost the same shade as Barbara’s. He had never noticed that before, but he had thought of her so much since he learned she was behind his escape plans. The priest went to the gate, raising his arm in response to the guard’s Fascist salute as he let him through. He must be going into Cuenca. Neither of the priests had come for Establo. Perhaps they hadn’t dared; Establo, unlike poor Vicente, had been a feared man.

Roll-call over, the quarry detail gathered in front of the gate. Agustín didn’t look at Bernie. The gates opened and the crocodile made its way into the hills. At first the path climbed through brown grass, then fingers of snow appeared in the gullies and finally they rose above the snowline, the world white again. Agustín was walking some way ahead of Bernie; he wouldn’t want anyone to remember them being together before the escape.