The Man Who Loved Dogs (54 page)

The following day, when Ramón, full of doubts, with his radio on and surrounded by newspapers, opened the door certain that he would find Caridad there again, the smiling face he ran into had the effect of immediately returning the calm he had lost for a day and a half.

“A master move,” Tom said, and patted Ramón’s shoulder as he walked by his side. “An incredible move . . .”

“Were you in Moscow?” The anxiety still ruled him.

“Would you make some coffee?” The recently arrived swept the newspapers on the sofa aside with one hand without putting any special emphasis on this action: he was just cleaning a place where trash had accumulated in order to make himself more comfortable, with a sigh, as if he were very weary. “I’ve barely slept in two days,” he remarked, and Ramón understood the order. He went to the kitchen to make some coffee and listened to Tom from there. “Tell me the truth. What did you think? It will stay between you and me.”

Ramón noticed that, despite the heat, his hands were cold.

“That Stalin knows what he’s doing,” Ramón said.

“Really? Then I congratulate you, because Comrade Stalin has never been more sure of anything. He’s even sure of the European Communists’ doubts.”

“I’m a Spanish Communist,” Ramón replied, and heard Tom roar with laughter.

“Yes, of course, and you’ll recall that a year ago, the European democracies silently accepted it when Hitler bit off a piece of Czechoslovakia. And now they don’t want Stalin to protect the Soviet Union?”

Ramón came out with the coffee, served in two great mugs, and almost in a hurry Tom began to drink his.

“Listen to me, kid, because you should understand what happened and why it happened. Comrade Stalin needs time to rebuild the Red Army. Between spies, traitors, and renegades, they had to purge thirty-six thousand officers from the army and four thousand from the navy. There was
no other choice but to execute thirteen of the fifteen troop commanders, taking out more than sixty percent of those in command. And do you know why he did it? Because Stalin is great. He learned the lesson and now he can’t allow the same thing to happen to us that happened to you in Spain . . . Now, tell me, do you think you can fight against the German army like that?”

Ramón tasted his coffee. A hint of logic was beginning to slice through the thickness of his doubts. Tom leaned toward him and continued.

“Stalin cannot allow Germany to invade Poland and reach the Soviet border. First would be the morale factor: that would be like handing over a piece of us. And, from Poland, the fascists would be just one step from Kiev, Minsk, and Leningrad.”

“So what guarantees the pact?”

“For starters, that eastern Poland will be ours. It’s the best way to keep them far from Kiev and Leningrad. With the Germans that far away and with a bit of time for Stalin to better prepare the Red Army, perhaps they’ll decide not to attack the Soviet Union. That is what Stalin is seeking with the pact. Are you beginning to understand?” Ramón nodded and Tom, leaning back, continued: “The numbers are clear. The German army has eighty divisions. They have enough to launch an attack against the West or the Soviet Union, but not both fronts at the same time. Hitler knows it and that’s why he agreed to sign it. But that piece of paper doesn’t mean anything; it doesn’t mean we’ll renounce anything. Look at it like a tactical solution, because it has just one goal and that is to gain time and space.”

“I understand,” Ramón said as he felt his tensions diminishing. “In any event—” he began, but Tom interrupted him.

“I’m glad you understand, because you’re going to have to accept many things that could seem strange to other people. The war is just around the corner, and when it begins, we’re going to have to make very serious decisions. But remember that the Soviet Union has the right and the duty to defend itself, even at the expense of Poland or whoever . . . Fortunately, we have Comrade Stalin, and he sees farther than all the bourgeois politicians . . . so far that he gave the order for you to go into action.”

Ramón felt a shudder go through him. The unforeseen twist in the conversation, which suddenly included him in a gigantic political maneuver, erased the last trace of doubt and filled him with pride.

“He already gave the order?”

“We’re getting close . . . It all depends on what happens in the coming months. If the Germans sweep Europe, we’ll go into action. We can’t run the risk of the Duck staying alive. The Germans can use him as the head of a counterrevolution. And he is so desperate for power, so full of hate for the Soviet Union, that he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to lend himself as Hitler’s puppet in an offensive against us.”

“So what do we do?”

Tom fished in the pocket of his shirt and removed a passport.

“We can’t risk you getting stuck if they seal the borders . . . You’re going to New York . . . Jacques Mornard is leaving because the war is about to start and he’s not willing to fight for others. You bought this Canadian passport for three thousand dollars and you’re going to see Sylvia before you go to Mexico, where you have a job as the agent for a businessman, a certain Peter Lubeck, importer of raw materials . . .”

“Will I then be Jacques Mornard again?”

“Full-time, although with two names. According to this passport, you’re Frank Jacson . . . And don’t worry, Caridad and I are going to be nearby the whole time.”

Ramón looked at the passport. Beneath his photographed face, he read his new name, and he felt happy knowing that he was getting close to the battlefront where the future of the socialist revolution could be decided. When he lifted his gaze, he saw that Tom had fallen asleep, with his head hanging over his shoulder. From his mouth, a deep snore began to reverberate. Ramón left him to recover his energy. For them, the war was about to begin.

In the days pierced by the doubts that would arise, and in the very difficult years that would follow, Ramón Mercader spent many hours recalling the life of Jacques Mornard and came to discover that he felt admiration and pity for him in similar measure. What Jacques did on that occasion, for example, was something mechanical, a decision that, at that moment, seemed to be the only possible one: as soon as he disembarked in New York, he went to see Sylvia. He didn’t even consider the possibility of taking a couple of days to enjoy the city without having to drag around the deadweight of that taxing woman. Definitively, Jacques was a little foolish and obeyed Ramón’s puritanism and Tom’s orders too
closely, he would think when he was in a position to examine Jacques from a critical distance and see how he could have acted differently.

When she opened the door and saw him, Sylvia was on the verge of passing out. Despite the letters in which he confirmed his love, his promise of matrimony, and the proximity of their next encounter, that woman—dazzled as she was and would be until she was brutally removed from her dream—had trembled every day their separation lasted, fearing that that gift from the sky would disappear and return her to the solitude of an ugly thirty-something with no expectations. During those months of distance, she had suffered every moment thinking that Jacques could fall in love with another woman or that he wouldn’t fit into her regular life, so full of meetings and political work, or that Jacques was too much of a man for so little a woman . . . Now the happiness of having him before her made tears spring to her eyes, and she kissed him as if she wanted to make him definitively real with the warmth of her lips.

“My love, my love, my love,” she kept repeating, like a woman possessed, as she began to drag Jacques toward the bedroom of her small Brooklyn apartment.

That night, her appetites fulfilled, Sylvia was at last able to find out that her lover had turned into a deserter. He explained that his sustained decision not to enlist in the army had led him to buy a passport on the black market, thanks to which he was able to leave France. His mother’s generosity had provided him the money for the purchase of the passport (“They’ve gotten so expensive because of the war,” he said) and for the trip, along with a few thousand dollars more to bring with him so that they could live on in New York until something economically satisfactory came up. Faced with the decision of her man who had come searching for her after burning all his bridges, Sylvia felt giddy with happiness.

Jacques insisted they go out to dinner. She suggested a nearby restaurant, as she planned the outings they would make to familiarize her lover with New York. At the newsstand, the vendor was ready to close the blinds and Jacques hurried to buy an evening paper. As he arrived at the stand, the headline repeated on all the evening papers burned itself into his retinas, Germany had invaded Poland.

With various newspapers in their hands, they entered the humble restaurant, furnished with Formica tables, settled in, and commented that that was, without a doubt, the start of the war. The British and French reactions to the German invasion were of a tone that could only lead to a
formal declaration of war, and there was speculation about whether the United States would join. As he read, Jacques understood that, once again, Tom had analyzed the Soviet strategy keenly and knew that he now found himself a few steps closer to carrying out his mission.

Sylvia ended up being an excellent guide to the city. Because of her political work and her community-based activities, she knew every inch of the metropolis. Jacques could see with his own eyes the cohabitation, in a limited space, the dazzling splendor and miserable poverty on which that mirror of capitalism sustained itself. With Tom still in Europe, he dedicated all of his time to Sylvia and felt proud that he was able to satisfy the needs of a constantly hungry woman.

As he and Tom had decided, starting on September 25, Jacques went on alternate days to a bar on Broadway where, at some point, Tom would find him to pass on his new instructions. The pretext he gave Sylvia for his absences was that he needed to find an old classmate who had been living in the city for years and who was connected enough to find him a good job.

The afternoon of October 1, when he saw Andrew Roberts enter, dressed in overwhelming elegance and displaying very sophisticated manners, Ramón felt a wave of envy. How many faces could that man use? Which of the stories he had told him could be true? As well as his loyalty to the cause, what visible part of him was real? Now he seemed like an actor from those Chicago mobster movies that Americans liked so much. Even his laughter fit his appearance, cinematographic and gangsterlike.

“Lots of work?” he asked in English when he sat down next to Jacques.

“I would say too much, Mr. Roberts. That woman always wants more.”

“Use your Spanish fury. If you were Swedish, you’d be fucked.” And he laughed sonorously as he addressed the bartender: “The usual, Jimmy. For my friend, too.”

“What about Caridad?” Jacques asked, hiding his surprise over the familiarity with which Roberts treated the bartender.

“For now, forget about her. I want you to spend all your time living and thinking like Jacques Mornard.”

“Why did it take you so long?”

“With the war, everything got complicated. I had to look for a new passport. I couldn’t leave as a Pole.”

“Any news from Mexico?”

“Everything is on. I need you there in two weeks.”

“To do something?”

“You have to become familiar with the terrain. Ever since the Red Army entered Poland, things have been going as Comrade Stalin foresaw. I have a feeling the order is about to be given.”

Mr. Roberts accepted his frozen vodka and, before the bartender could place the small glass before Jacques, he was already returning his, empty.

“You’re thirsty today, Mr. Roberts,” said Jimmy, who refilled his glass and withdrew.

“In a few days, Europe is going to turn into an inferno,” Roberts sighed.

“Do I take Sylvia with me?”

“For now, it’s preferable to leave her here. You have a job in Mexico at an importing company. Your Belgian friend put you in touch with Mr. Lubeck, who needs someone who speaks several languages and is able to inspire more confidence than a Mexican. It’s an easy and well-paid job . . . We’ll need Sylvia in Mexico later on, when you control the terrain.”

“What about the American spy?”

The bartender returned with another vodka and Roberts gave him his successful, tough-guy smile.

“Nothing yet. But it’s better that way. If he arrived now, it would be too soon. Grigulievich is having a hell of a time with the Mexicans. Each one wants to do things his own way and do them straightaway.”

Jacques tasted his vodka and Roberts downed his.

“From now on, you’re Jacson for all legal matters; to Sylvia and the people you meet through her, you’re Jacques. Be careful with the way you speak. The idea is that little by little you start improving your Spanish.”

The bartender removed his empty glass and returned it full. Roberts smiled at him. Slowly, Jacques finished his vodka.

“You seem worried, kid,” Roberts said.

“Sometimes I am afraid that all of this”—Jacques Mornard opened his arms, indicating the bar, the city—“is all just for fun. I’ve spent two years preparing myself for something I might never do. I left my comrades in Spain, I don’t have a single friend, I’ve turned into someone else, and it could all be in vain.”

Mr. Roberts let him finish and stayed silent for a few moments.