In the Night of Time (63 page)

“They were going to kill Juan Ramón Jiménez? What could they have suspected him of?”

“Suspected? Nothing. He had the same name as somebody else they were looking for, or he resembled him. His good teeth saved him.”

“So he bit his way out of it? He's quick-tempered.”

“It's no joke. The militiamen were sure of only one detail about the man they were looking for: he had false teeth. When Juan Ramón insisted they had the wrong man, they began to have their doubts. One of them figured they could just pull on his teeth and find out. Now you know that Juan Ramón has the best teeth in all of Madrid. A patrol almost arrested Don Antonio Machado because they thought he looked like a priest. But tell me, how long ago did they arrest your friend? It would be an international disgrace for us if anything happened to him. Yet another one.”

“I don't know where to begin looking for him.”

“You don't and neither does anybody else. It seemed we were going to abolish the bourgeois state, and now each party and union has its own jail and police force in addition to its own militias. What a great step forward. I suppose our enemies are delighted with us. In the Anarchist militias they vote on whether it's a good idea to attack the enemy, in ours they shoot the few military commanders we have left for sabotage if an offensive fails. The miracle is that in the Sierra we've been able to contain the insurgents, and from the south they haven't reached Madrid yet. And what about the Aragón front? If the brave columns of Catalán Anarchists keep breaking through and crushing the enemy's defenses, how come they never reach Zaragoza? And if every day we're about to take the Alcázar de Toledo, why haven't we taken it yet? From what you tell me, I assume the people who picked up your friend were Communists. They wouldn't have killed him right away, they would've wanted to interrogate him. Didn't he live for a time in the Soviet Union? Go talk to Bergamín, at the Alliance of Anti-Fascist Intellectuals. You know that one way or another he's connected to everybody. Leave me a message at home if you find out anything. As soon as I get back from the Sierra tonight, I'll look with you.”

“And where's this Alliance?”

Negrín burst into laughter and made a sharp turn at the corner of the Plaza de Santa Bárbara to head west along the avenues.

“For God's sake, Abel, you don't know anything! The cream of the anti-Fascist intelligentsia has installed itself in the palace of the marquises of Heredia Spinola, one of the best in Madrid. They make war by editing a little newspaper with revolutionary poems, and to rest from their labors they give masquerade balls using the wardrobe of the marquises, who may have fled or died, I don't know which . . . Forgive me for not taking you there, but I'm pulled in the opposite direction, and I would like to reach the Sierra in time for supper.”

 

He hadn't walked so much in Madrid in a long time, not since he was young and conscientiously saved the few céntimos of carfare. Perhaps that was why he remembered the long walk he took from the cemetery after his mother's funeral on what had then been the uninhabited edge of the city; one step after another, just like now, head down, with the solitary determination to get somewhere and be somebody. He'd felt fatigue but also energy, the mad euphoria of oxygen pumped into his brain by the muscular effort and rhythm of his steps; the sensation of being a transient stripped of any resemblance to the people who passed by and never saw him, alone in the world, as he'd been then, walking through a city that was his own but also alien to him, just as he had passed the windows of toy stores or bookstores or clothing stores and stared at things inaccessible to him. As a child he looked with horror at the world around him, a world of death and hunger, the curse of poverty, bare feet in winter, bare heads white with ringworm, bodies crippled, deformed, as if they belonged to another species yet living a few minutes away from his home. With a childish sense of empathy, but also relief, he was just as aware of his similarity to those unfortunate boys at the margins of society as he was of the privilege that saved him from sharing their fate. But he was not aware of how different he was from the others, those who received electric trains, regiments of lead soldiers in brilliantly colored uniforms, toy theaters, magic lanterns: those children he saw playing, watched over by uniformed maids, in the gardens of the Eastern Palace or riding in a cart pulled by a goat wearing a bridle with bells; those who looked at him with a smile of curiosity or disdain when he shared a classroom with them in the Piarist Academy, whispering behind his back that he was a porter's son. Some, in time, he met again in the School of Architecture, and the smile hadn't changed, or it appeared when someone new got wind of the gossip: his mother had been a porter—or even worse, a washerwoman—in the Manzanares (she did that when she was young, long before he was born), his father a construction foreman or a mason or one of those mule drivers who transported rubble from demolitions to garbage dumps. One of Adela's relatives had called him a fugitive from the scaffolding. A fugitive now from he didn't know what or whom, on the sidewalk of the Glorieta de Bilbao where Negrín had dropped him, carried along by circumstances, like so many people in Madrid and in all of Spain, from one side to the other of fractured battlefronts, as unpredictable as chasms in an earthquake, carried down the stairs to the tunnels of the metro by the crowd, rushing to the doors that opened when the train arrived, bodies too close repelled him, jammed together in a hostile silence, everyone afraid, resistant to propaganda, even less believable in this subterranean world than in the open air and light of day. Carried along by forces beyond his control, he still didn't feel that he had any excuse or that his powerlessness gave him an alibi. Always a fugitive deep down, but now more than ever: eager to recover his children even if he had to cross the lines to the other side (the children he'd abandoned on the afternoon of July 19); eager to leave Spain and escape the general disaster or at least the ultimate fate of so many others—Professor Rossman, perhaps, if he didn't find him—as if they were in a sinister lottery. His mind whirled in a monologue accelerated by a sense of feverishness; he was wearing himself out circling around Madrid. He emerged from the metro on the corner of the Bank of Spain, which he'd passed only an hour earlier, the great granite edifice covered up past the gratings by a flood of posters.
JOIN THE PEOPLE'S GLORIOUS AND INVINCIBLE BATALLION AND IT WILL CARRY YOU TO VICTORY!
Silhouettes of tall Soviet blast furnaces, hammers and sickles, a fist crushing a plane adorned with a swastika, an army officer wearing gold braid, a Falangist with the mouth of an ogre.
WORKER! BY JOINING THE COLUMN OF IRON YOU STRENGTHEN THE REVOLUTION
. Around the entrance to the metro swarmed a crowd of beggars, peddlers of lottery tickets and cigarettes and lighter flints, of revolutionary color pictures mixed with the old religious ones, of postcards and rumpled pornographic magazines, barefoot boys hawking the first afternoon papers with the usual report of the imminent capture of the Alcázar de Toledo.
TO ATTACK IS TO CONQUER! EVERYONE TO THE ATTACK LIKE A SINGLE BODY! WITH OUR BLOOD WE WILL WRITE THE MOST SUBLIME PAGE IN THE GLORIOUS HISTORY OF MADRID!
Among the people strolling that afternoon through the gardens and sitting at café tables beneath the plantain trees, he recognized the proud back and neck of his brother-in-law Víctor. Instead of crossing the street where Negrín had told him he'd find the Alliance of Anti-Fascist Intellectuals, he rushed to catch up with Víctor, who had turned his head to one side, as if he'd sensed someone following him. With his skin tanned and a beard of several days, Víctor was hard to recognize.

“You gave me a fright, brother-in-law. Keep walking. What's going on?”

“What are you still doing in Madrid?”

“What about you?”

“I'm looking for a friend.”

“Walk faster. Aren't you going to denounce me?”

“I thought you would have left.”

“It's not worth it anymore. Our forces will be here soon. And those of us still here have a great deal to do.”

“What a fool you are. You could hide.”

“It's what I'm doing right now, if you don't get in the way. In the light of day and among people, I'm in no danger. You wouldn't want me to hide like a rabbit in his burrow, waiting for them to hunt me down.”

“Do you have any news of the family?”

“Don't stop, damn it, keep walking! Don't look to the side. A patrol is on the corner asking for papers.”

“Do you have any?”

“I'm sure you do, now that your side's in charge.”

Out of the corner of his eye Ignacio Abel saw the militiamen at the end of the path. Turning around now would be dangerous for Víctor. Perhaps if they continued walking and he showed his credentials, they wouldn't suspect his companion. A rowdy group of children surrounded a peanut vendor's cart pulled by a little donkey. From a small brass pipe wafted the delicious aroma of freshly roasted peanuts. The vendor advertised his merchandise by singing outlandish rhymes as he mixed the contents of the portable oven with a small scoop or filled narrow cones of wrapping paper. One of the militiamen held a rifle horizontally. The other examined the documents of a couple with their arms entwined. The smoke from the peanut cart drifted into Ignacio Abel's face when he took out his wallet. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them Víctor was no longer beside him.

 

“The revolution is a necessary surgery,” Bergamín said to him, his palms held together before his lean, closely shaven face, in a gloomy office with collections of weapons and leather-bound books on shelves of dark wood, where, when the door was closed, you could barely hear the noise of typewriters and voices in other offices and the constant rhythm of the printing presses.

I see the address on a map and walk up a narrow street behind Cibeles, Marqués de Duero, until I find number 7: a gate, a brick building with a Mudéjar-style roof, an iron-and-glass marquee over the entrance stairway, where Ignacio Abel walked in and saw, in the midst of a throng of busy people loading bundles of newspapers onto a truck, a fair-haired, smiling man with a fleshy face that looked familiar, though he couldn't quite identify it, perhaps because he was dressed as a militiaman, in a spotless blue coverall and gleaming leather straps, a camera hanging from his shoulder instead of a rifle. When he got closer he realized it was the poet Alberti, whose eyes rested for a moment on him, alternately acute and absent, perhaps because Alberti knew vaguely who he was but didn't consider it essential to greet him. He asked for Bergamín, saying he'd come on behalf of Bergamín's brother the architect, and a short female secretary wearing a belt with a pistol in a leather holster led him to an office. Bergamín did remember him: in recent years he'd published some of Ignacio Abel's articles in
Cruz y Raya.
I can almost see him, as if I myself had sat down in front of him and cleared my throat and swallowed before I stated, assessing the right tone, the reason for my visit: the methodical men who took away Professor Rossman after searching his room. Bergamín is thinner, more emaciated than ever, his nose more pointed, the tip damp and red from a cold that forced him to blow it from time to time, his eyes smaller beneath thick eyebrows, his voice weak, nasal, his black hair straight, parted down the middle.

“. . . the cut, of necessity, has to be bloody,” he says and inhales, “but what counts is not the spilled blood in and of itself but the smoothness of the operation. There is always more than enough blood, as our enemies take care to remind us, and they have no misgivings about spilling it. You've heard about the rivers of blood flowing where they've won—in Sevilla, in Granada, in Badajoz. The moral scruples that paralyze us don't exist for them. So what should concern us at this glorious and tragic moment is not the volume of blood being spilled on account of the revolution but its success, and on this point it definitely is possible to have doubts. The Spanish people are behaving with an instinct for justice appropriate to the spirit of the race, but also with an anarchy that is equally atavistic and can turn against itself if we don't channel it. What a talent for improvisation, a superior instinct, even in the language. Suddenly there are new words and expressions that seem to have always been there. What genius of farce thought up that verbal marvel of ‘taking for a ride'? Or ‘to lance someone'—the bottomless quarry of bullfighting speech that's at the very heart of what is irreducibly Spanish. Don't make a face. I lament the excesses as much as you do, but how trivial they are compared to the great good sense of the people's instinctive heroism, and in any case we weren't the ones who started this war, it's just that the weight of the blood falls on the accomplices of those who provoked it. Don't be shocked at the blood or the flames. It was necessary. Obligatory. Defense, not injury, on our part. I remember the article in which you celebrated the marvelous capacity of popular Spanish architecture to adapt. Isn't the same thing happening now? The Spanish people, accustomed to scarcity, make do with what's at hand. The disloyal army rebels? The people rise up in militias and guerrilla groups, just as they did in 1808 against the French, with the same instinct that had been dormant for more than a century, and they take what they find at hand, make the most ordinary thing epic, the proletarian blue coverall transformed into a new uniform, one without the negative connotation of a military uniform. That's why I wanted to name our magazine
The Blue Coverall.
Isn't that better than the name Neruda gave his,
Green Horse
? A green horse, if you stop to think about it, is foolishness. The blue coverall is serious. It would be a good idea, come to think of it, if you'd write something for us. It isn't a good idea to go around asking about a suspect when you're not adding anything to the cause, you know, when it isn't obvious you're as committed to the struggle. The time of pure intellectuals has passed, if in fact it ever existed. Look at the public shame of Ortega, of Marañón, of Baroja, of the miserable felon that Don Miguel de Unamuno turned out to be. I suppose you've heard what they did to poor Lorca in Granada.”