"Winter in Madrid" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sansom C. J.)Chapter SixIT HAD BEEN RAINING solidly for twenty-four hours, a heavy soaking rain that fell vertically from a windless sky, swishing and gurgling on the cobbles. It was colder, too; Harry had found a winter eiderdown at the flat and spread it out over the big double bed. That morning he was due to visit the Trade Ministry with Hillgarth, his first outing in his interpreter’s role. He was glad to be doing something at last. They had integrated him into embassy life. The head of the translation section, Weaver, had tested his Spanish in his office. He was very tall, thin, with a patrician air. ‘All righty,’ he said in languid tones after talking with Harry for half an hour. ‘You’ll do.’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ Harry said tonelessly. Weaver’s haughty effeteness annoyed him. Weaver sighed. ‘The ambassador doesn’t really like Hillgarth’s people getting involved with the regular work, but there we are.’ He looked at Harry as though he were some strange exotic animal. ‘Yes, sir,’ Harry replied. ‘I’ll show you to your room. There are some press releases come in that you can start working on.’ He had taken Harry to a little office. A battered desk took up most of the space, press releases in Spanish stacked on the blotter. They came in regularly and for the next three days Harry was busy. He saw nothing of Hillgarth, though Tolhurst dropped in occasionally to see how he was doing. He liked Tolhurst, his self-deprecation and his ironic comments, but he hadn’t taken to most of the embassy staff. They affected a contempt for the Spaniards; the bleak poverty Harry had seen had depressed him but it seemed to amuse some of the embassy people. Most food shops in Madrid had ‘ Hillgarth picked him up from his flat at ten in a big American car, a Packard, driven by an English chauffeur, a thickset Cockney. Harry had put on his morning suit, the trousers carefully screwed into the press overnight; Hillgarth wore his captain’s uniform again. ‘We’re going to see the junior trade minister, General Maestre,’ Hillgarth said, squinting into the rain. ‘I’m confirming which oil ships the navy’s allowing in. And I want to ask him about Carceller, the new minister.’ He drummed his fingers on the armrest for a moment, looking thoughtful. The day before, a series of cabinet changes had been announced; Harry had translated the press releases. The changes favoured the Falange; Franco’s brother-in-law Serrano Su#241;er had been made Foreign Minister. ‘Maestre’s all right,’ Hillgarth continued. ‘One of the old school. Cousin of a duke.’ Harry looked through the window. People walked by, hunched against the rain, workmen in their overalls and women in the ubiquitous black, shawls drawn over their heads. They did not hurry; they were soaked already. Umbrellas, Tolhurst had told him, were impossible to get even on the black market. As they passed a baker’s shop, Harry saw a crowd of black-shawled women standing in the rain. Many had thin children with them and Harry saw, here and there through the smears of rain, the bloated gas-filled stomachs of malnutrition. The women crowded round the door, banging and shouting at someone within. Hillgarth grunted. ‘There’ve been rumours of potatoes coming in. He’s probably got some, saving them for the black market. The supply agency’s offering the potato farmers so little they won’t sell. That’s so the Junta de Abastos can take their cut before they sell on.’ ‘And Franco allows it?’ ‘He can’t stop it. The They passed the parliament building, shuttered and empty, and turned into the Trade Ministry courtyard. A ‘Oh, it’s a revolution all right, for the Falangists anyway. They want a state like Hitler’s. You should see some of the people we have to deal with. Make your hair stand on end. Make the books I used to write seem tame.’ IN A WOOD-PANELLED office under a huge portrait of Franco, a man in a general’s uniform, the creases immaculate, stood waiting for them. He was in his early fifties, tall and fit-looking. He had a tanned face from which clear brown eyes shone. Thinning black hair was brushed carefully across the crown of his head to hide his baldness. A younger man in morning dress stood beside him, his face expressionless. The officer smiled and shook Hillgarth’s hand warmly. He spoke to him in Spanish, in a clear rich voice. His younger colleague translated. ‘My dear captain, a pleasure to see you.’ ‘And you, general. I think we can give you the certificates today.’ Hillgarth glanced at Harry, who repeated his words in Spanish. ‘Very good. The matter should be settled.’ Maestre gave Harry a courtly smile. ‘You have a new translator, I see. Se#241;or Greene is not incapacitated, I hope.’ ‘Had to go home. Family problems, compassionate leave.’ General Maestre nodded. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear it. I hope his family have not been bombed.’ ‘No. Private problems.’ They took their places round the desk. Hillgarth opened his briefcase and produced the certificates that would allow specified oil tankers to be escorted in by the Royal Navy. Hillgarth and Maestre went through them, checking dates and routes and tonnage. Harry translated Hillgarth’s words into Spanish and the young Spaniard translated Maestre’s replies into English. Harry was unsure of one or two technical terms, but Maestre’s manner was friendly and polite. Maestre wasn’t what Harry had expected one of Franco’s ministers to be like. At length Maestre gathered the papers together, sighing theatrically. ‘Ah, captain. If you knew how angry it makes some of my colleagues, Spain having to ask permission from the Royal Navy to import necessities. It insults our pride, you know.’ ‘England’s at war, sir; we have to be sure anything imported by a neutral is not sold on to Germany.’ The general held the certificates out to his translator. ‘Fernando, have these taken across to the Navy Ministry.’ The young man seemed to hesitate a moment, but Maestre raised his eyebrows at him and he bowed and left the room. The general relaxed at once, producing a cigarette case and offering it round. ‘That’s got rid of him,’ he said in perfect English. Harry’s eyes widened. The general smiled. ‘Oh yes, Mr Brett, I speak English. I studied at Cambridge. That young man is there to see I don’t say anything I shouldn’t. One of Serrano Su#241;er’s men. The captain knows what I mean.’ ‘All too well, Minister. Brett here studied at Cambridge too.’ ‘Did you?’ Maestre looked at him with interest, then smiled reflectively. ‘During the Civil War, when we were fighting the Reds on the ‘King’s, sir.’ Maestre nodded. ‘I had a year at Peterhouse. Wonderful, as I say.’ He pulled out a gold cigarette case. ‘Will you smoke?’ ‘Thanks, I don’t.’ ‘Any news?’ Hillgarth asked. ‘About the new minister?’ Maestre leaned back and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Don’t worry about Carceller. He’s got a lot of Falangist notions – ’ he curled his lip disdainfully – ‘but he’s a realist at heart.’ ‘Sir Sam will be pleased.’ The general nodded slowly. Then he turned to Harry with an urbane smile. ‘Well, young man, how do you find Spain?’ Harry hesitated. ‘Full of unexpected things.’ ‘We passed a big queue of women outside a baker’s,’ Hillgarth said. ‘They’d heard he’d got potatoes.’ Maestre shook his head sadly. ‘Those Falangists could cause a famine in the Garden of Eden. Have you heard the new joke, Alan? Hitler meets Franco and asks how he can starve Britain into surrender, the U-boats are not enough. Franco replies, “Mein f#252;hrer, I will send them my Junta de Abastos. In three weeks they will be desperate to sign.” ’ Hillgarth and Maestre laughed, Harry joining in uncertainly. Maestre smiled at him, bowing his head a little. ‘Forgive me, ‘Oh, we’re coping,’ Hillgarth said. ‘I hear when the Queen was asked if the royal children would leave London because of the bombing she said – what was it? – they won’t leave without me, I won’t leave without the King, and the King won’t go.’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘What a fine woman.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘What style. She has ‘Thank you.’ ‘And now the Italians are being beaten in Greece. The tide will turn. Juan March knows.’ The general raised his eyebrows at Hillgarth, then rose and turned again to Harry. ‘Mr Brett, I am giving a party in ten days, for my daughter who will be eighteen. My only child. There are so few suitable young men in Madrid these days, perhaps you would like to come? It would be good for Milagros to meet a young man from England.’ He smiled with sudden tenderness at the mention of his daughter’s name. ‘Thank you, sir. If – er – embassy commitments allow—’ ‘Excellent! I am sure Sir Sam can spare you for one evening. I will have an invitation sent. And, captain, the Knights of St George, we shall discuss that later.’ Hillgarth glanced quickly at Harry, then gave Maestre a barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘Yes. Later.’ The general hesitated, then nodded sharply. He shook Harry’s hand. ‘I must leave you now, I am afraid. It was a great pleasure to meet you. There is a ceremony at the palace, the Italian ambassador is pinning a new medal on the chest of the General#237;simo.’ He laughed. ‘So many honours, Il Duce weighs him down with them.’ THE RAIN HAD STOPPED. Walking through the car park Hillgarth looked thoughtful. ‘That name Maestre mentioned in there. Juan March. Know it?’ ‘He’s a Spanish businessman, isn’t he? Helped finance Franco during the Civil War. A crook, I heard.’ ‘Well, forget you heard his name, all right? And the Knights of St George, forget that too. Something private the embassy’s engaged on. Maestre thought you knew more than you do since you were with me. All right?’ ‘I won’t say anything, sir.’ ‘Good man.’ Hillgarth’s tone lightened. ‘You should go to that party. Relax a bit. Chance to meet some ‘Thank you, sir, I might.’ Harry wondered what the party would be like. The chauffeur was waiting in the car, reading a week-old ‘Maestre’s daughter’s quite attractive,’ Hillgarth continued as they drove back to the embassy. ‘Real little Spanish pomegranate— Jesus Christ!’ They both fell back against their seats as the car braked sharply. They were turning into Calle Fernando del Santo, where the embassy was. The normally quiet street was filled with people, a roaring, shouting mob. The driver was startled out of his calm. ‘What the hell?’ They were Falangists, young men mostly in bright blue shirts and red berets. There were about a hundred of them. They stood facing the embassy, shouting, their arms stretched out in the Fascist salute. They waved banners reading, ‘ ‘ ‘Oh, God,’ Hillgarth said wearily. ‘Not another demonstration.’ Someone in the crowd pointed at the car and the nearest Falangists turned and yelled their slogans at them, shouting, faces distorted, arms stretching in and out like metronomes. A stone bounced off the bonnet. ‘Drive on, Potter,’ Hillgarth said steadily. ‘Are you sure, sir? They look nasty.’ ‘It’s all show. Get on, man.’ The chauffeur proceeded at a snail’s pace, forcing a passage between the demonstrators and the embassy wall. Half of them were teenagers, their Falange Youth uniform a copy of the Hitler Youth with blue shirts instead of brown, the girls in wide skirts and the boys in shorts. One boy had a drum and began banging it dramatically. It seemed to inflame the crowd and some of the boys reached out and began rocking the big car. Others followed and Harry and Hillgarth bounced around inside as the car inched slowly on. Harry felt disgust; they were scarcely more than children. ‘Give them a hoot,’ Hillgarth said. The horn sounded and an older Falangist elbowed his way out of the crowd, motioning the youngsters away from the car. ‘See,’ Hillgarth said, ‘they were just getting carried away.’ A tall, broadly built youth of around seventeen, worked up into a paroxysm of rage, pushed through the crowd and walked alongside the car, screaming insults in English through the window. ‘Death to King George! Death to the fat Jew pig Churchill!’ Hillgarth laughed, but Harry flinched away, the ridiculousness of the catcalls somehow making them even nastier. ‘Where are the ‘Tipped the wink to go for a walk, I’d guess. These are Serrano Su#241;er’s people. OK, Potter, pull up opposite the door. When we get out, Brett, chin up. Ignore them.’ Harry followed Hillgarth out on to the pavement. The shrieking was louder and he felt exposed and suddenly afraid. His heart began to pound. The Falangists shouted at them from the other side of the car, the enraged youth still howling in English. ‘Sink the English ships! Kill the Bolshevist Jews!’ Another stone sailed across the road and cracked the glass in the embassy door. Harry flinched and had to fight the urge to crouch down. Hillgarth grasped the handle. ‘Hell, it’s locked.’ He rattled it. A figure moved in the shadowy interior and Tolhurst appeared, running in a crouch to the door. He fumbled with the catch. ‘Come on, Tolly!’ Hillgarth shouted. ‘Stand up for Christ’s sake, they’re only a bunch of hooligans!’ Then the chauffeur shouted, ‘Look out!’ and Harry caught a glimpse of something hurtling through the air. He felt a hard blow on his neck and staggered. He and Hillgarth threw up their arms as something white swirled round their heads, half choking them. There was a joyous yell from the crowd. For a second Harry saw red sand flying. The door opened and Hillgarth ducked inside. Tolhurst reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling him inside with surprising strength. He locked the door again and turned to them, mouth open. Harry ran his hands over his neck and shoulders but there were no wounds, no redness, only white powder. He leaned against a desk, taking deep whooping breaths. Hillgarth sniffed his sleeve and laughed. ‘Flour! It’s bloody flour!’ ‘Cheeky bastards,’ Tolhurst said. ‘Does Sam know about all this?’ Hillgarth’s face was alive with excitement. ‘He’s phoning the Interior Ministry now, sir. Are you both all right?’ ‘Yes. Come on, Brett, we need to clean up.’ Chuckling again, Hillgarth made for an inner door. Outside the mob was laughing at what they had done, though the demented youth still raved on. Tolhurst looked at Harry. ‘You all right?’ He was still trembling. ‘Yes – yes, sorry.’ Tolhurst took his arm. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to my room, I’ve a clothes brush there.’ Harry allowed himself to be led away. TOLHURT’S OFFICE was even smaller than Harry’s. He produced a clothes brush from his desk. ‘I’ve a spare suit here. It’ll be a bit wide for you but it should do.’ ‘Thanks.’ Harry brushed off the worst of the flour. He felt much better, calm again, even though he could still hear the shouting from outside. Tolhurst looked out of the window. ‘The police’ll come along and clear them in a minute. Serrano Su#241;er’s made his point. And Sir Sam’s chewed his ear over the phone.’ ‘The demonstration didn’t send him into a funk?’ Tolhurst shook his head. ‘No, he’s on form today, no sign of the pink rat. You never know how he’s going to react.’ ‘I had a touch of the pink rat myself when that flour landed,’ Harry said self-consciously. ‘I didn’t know what it was. I was back at Dunkirk for a moment. I’m sorry, it must have seemed like I was yellow.’ Tolhurst looked uncomfortable. ‘No. Not at all. I know about shell shock, my father had it in the last lot.’ He hesitated. ‘They wouldn’t let embassy staff join up last year, you know. I was quite relieved, I’m afraid.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not one of the world’s heroes. Happier behind a desk, if truth be told. Don’t know how I’d have coped with what you went through.’ ‘You don’t know what you can do till you get out there.’ ‘I suppose not.’ ‘Captain Hillgarth seems pretty fearless.’ ‘Yes. I think he enjoys danger. You have to admire that sort of courage, don’t you?’ ‘That was a minor panic I had then, compared to what I was like a couple of months ago.’ Tolhurst nodded. ‘Good. That’s good.’ He turned back to the window. ‘Come and look at them. They’ve no bread yet they can throw flour. Bet it came from the Auxilio Social stores, the Falange are responsible for feeding the poor.’ Harry joined him, looking at the unruly sea of blue. ‘Lucky ‘D’you know, we sent some of the bread they get on the ration to London for analysis. The boffins said it wasn’t fit for human consumption; the flour was adulterated with bloody sawdust. Yet they can afford to throw good white flour at us.’ ‘The Falangist bigwigs won’t have to eat the sawdust.’ ‘Too bloody right they won’t.’ ‘They were shouting anti-Jewish slogans. I didn’t think the Falange went in for that.’ ‘They do now. Same as Mussolini, to please the Nazis.’ ‘Bastards,’ Harry said with sudden fierceness. ‘After Dunkirk I sometimes used to wonder, what’s the point of going on, fighting, but then you see things like this. Fascism. Turning teenaged thugs on to innocent people. Then it’s bombing civilians, machine-gunning retreating soldiers. Christ, I hate them.’ Tolhurst nodded. ‘Yes. But we have to deal with them here. Unfortunately.’ He pointed a finger. ‘Look at that idiot.’ The boy who had yelled in English had taken hold of a ‘Gibraltar espa#241;ol’ banner and was marching up and down in front of the embassy with a military swagger, the crowd cheering him on. Harry wondered where he had learned English. He was a tall, well-set-up lad, probably from a middle-class home. The door opened and the ambassador’s wiry form darted in. He looked furious. ‘You all right, Brett?’ ‘Yes, sir, thank you. It was only flour.’ ‘I won’t have my staff attacked!’ Hoare’s thin voice was shaking with anger. ‘I’m all right, sir, honestly.’ ‘Yes, yes, yes, but it’s the principle.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think Stokes is looking for you, Tolhurst.’ He nodded at the door. ‘Yes, sir.’ Tolhurst melted away. The ambassador glanced out of the window, snorted, then turned back to Harry. His pale eyes were calculating. ‘Hillgarth told me about your meeting this morning. Maestre’s a blabbermouth. The things he mentioned, Juan March and the Knights of St George; you’re not to discuss them with anyone. There are lots of angles to what we’re doing here. Need-to-know basis, do you understand?’ ‘Yes, sir. I told the captain I’d say nothing.’ ‘Good man. Glad you’re all right.’ Hoare clapped Harry on the shoulder, then looked with distaste at the flour on his hand. He turned to the door. ‘Tell Tolhurst to get that cleaned up.’ LEFT ALONE, Harry sat down. He felt terribly weary and there was a humming in his ears, a pressure. It took him back again to Dunkirk, after the shell landed next to him. He had tried to sit up. He was covered with sand that was wet and warm. He couldn’t think properly, bring his thoughts together. Then a touch on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. A small, wiry corporal was leaning over him. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Harry could hardly hear the man, there was something wrong with his ears. He sat up. His uniform was covered in bloody sand and there were lumps of red scattered around. Tomlinson, he realized. He let the corporal drag him down to the beach, into the sea. The water was chilly and he began trembling from head to foot, he couldn’t move. ‘Tomlinson,’ he said. He could hardly hear his own voice. ‘Such little pieces.’ The corporal grasped his shoulders, turned him round, looked into his eyes. ‘Come on, sir, come on, into the boat.’ The corporal led him deeper into the water. Other men in khaki were splashing all around. Then Harry was looking up at the brown wooden hull of the boat. It seemed so high. Two men reached down and took his arms. He felt himself being lifted into the air again, then passed out. HE BECAME aware that voices were still calling outside. He got up and went back to the window. The youth was standing to attention now, banner at his side, yelling up at the embassy. Harry caught the words. ‘Death to the enemies of Spain! Death to the English! Death to the Jews!’ The boy stopped in mid-flow. His mouth dropped open and his face reddened. Harry saw a tiny black circle appear at the crotch of his grey shorts. It grew larger and larger, then something ran glistening down his thigh. He had worked himself into such a state he had wet himself. The boy stood rigid, his face blank with horror. Someone called, ‘ |
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