The town was sunk in a kind of crystal ball; everyone seemed to be asleep (transcendentally asleep!) no matter if they were walking or sitting outside. Around five the sky clouded over and at six it began to rain. The streets cleared all at once. I had the thought that it was as if autumn had unsheathed a claw and scratched: everything was coming apart. The tourists running on the sidewalks in search of shelter, the shopkeepers pulling tarps over the merchandise displayed in the street, the increasing number of shop windows closed until next summer. Whether I felt pity or scorn when I saw this, I don’t know. Detached from any external stimulus, the only thing I could see or feel with any clarity was myself. Everything else had been bombarded by something dark; movie sets consigned to dust and oblivion, as if for good.
The question, then, was what I was doing in the middle of such gloom.
The rest of the afternoon I spent lying in bed waiting for El Quemado to return to the hotel.
On my way up to the room I asked whether I had received any calls from Germany. The answer was no; there were no messages for me.
From the balcony I watched as El Quemado left the beach and crossed the Paseo Marítimo toward the hotel. I hurried downstairs so that when he arrived I would be at the door, waiting for him; I suppose I was afraid that they wouldn’t let him in if he wasn’t with me. As I was passing the reception desk, Frau Else’s voice brought me up short. It was hardly louder than a whisper, but it took me by surprise, echoing in my head like a trumpet blast.
“Udo, you’re still here,” she said as if she hadn’t known.
I stood there in the main hall, in an embarrassing position, to say the least. At the other end of the hall, behind the glass doors, El Quemado was waiting. For a moment I saw him as part of a film projected on the door: El Quemado and the deep blue horizon punctuated by a car parked across the street, the heads of people walking by, and the fuzzy images of the tables on the terrace. Only Frau Else was completely real, beautiful and solitary behind the counter.
“Yes, of course . . . As you well know.” When I addressed her with the informal du, Frau Else blushed. I think I had seen her like that only once, with her defenses down. I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not.
“I hadn’t . . . seen you. That’s all. I don’t keep track of all your movements,” she said in a low voice.
“I’ll be here until the body of my friend turns up. I hope you don’t have any problem with that.”
With a scowl of distaste she looked away. I was afraid she would see El Quemado and use him as a pretext for changing the subject.
“My husband is sick and he needs me. These last few days I’ve spent with him, unable to do anything else. You wouldn’t understand that, would you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, that’s enough. I didn’t mean to bother you. Good-bye.”
But neither she nor I moved.
El Quemado was watching me from the other side of the door. And I have to imagine that he was being watched by the hotel guests sitting on the terrace or by the people walking by on the sidewalk. At any minute someone would come up to him and ask him to leave; then El Quemado would strangle him, using only his right arm, and all would be lost.
“Is your . . . husband better? I sincerely hope so. I’m afraid I’ve been an idiot. Forgive me.”
Frau Else bowed her head and said:
“Yes . . . Thank you . . .”
“I’d like to talk to you tonight . . . to see you alone . . . But I don’t want to force you to do something that might cause trouble for you later . . .”
Frau Else’s lips took an eternity to move into a smile. I don’t know why, but I was shaking.
“Someone’s waiting for you now, yes?”
Yes, a comrade in arms, I thought, but I didn’t say anything and I nodded in a way that expressed the inevitability of the engagement. A comrade in arms? An enemy in arms!
“Remember that even though you’re a friend of the owner, you should respect the hotel rules.”
“What rules?”
“Among many others, the rule that prohibits certain visitors in the guest rooms.” Her voice was back to normal, sounding part ironic and part authoritarian. Clearly, this was Frau Else’s realm.
I tried to protest, but her raised hand commanded silence.
“This is not to suggest anything, or say anything. I’m not making any accusations. I feel sorry for that poor boy too.” She meant El Quemado. “But I have to look out for the Del Mar and its guests. And I have to look out for you. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“What could possibly happen to me? We’re just playing.”
“What?”
“You know very well what.”
“Ah, the game at which you’re champion.” When she smiled her teeth gleamed dangerously. “A winter sport; at this time of year you’d do better to swim or play tennis.”
“If you want to laugh at me, go ahead. I deserve it.”
“All right, we’ll meet tonight, at one, at the church on the square. Do you know how to get there?”
“Yes.”
Frau Else’s smile vanished. I tried to come closer but I realized it wasn’t the right moment. We said good-bye and I went out. On the terrace everything was normal; two steps down from El Quemado a couple of girls were discussing the weather as they waited for their dates. Just as on every other night, people laughed and made plans.
I exchanged a few words with El Quemado and we went back in.
As we passed the reception desk I didn’t see anyone behind the counter, although it occurred to me that Frau Else could be hiding. With an effort I repressed the urge to go over and look.
I think I didn’t do it because I would have had to explain everything to El Quemado.
Our match continued along predictable lines: in the spring of ’40 I launched an Offensive Option in the Mediterranean and conquered Tunis and Algeria; on the Western front I spent twentyfive BRP, which bought me the conquest of France; during the SR I placed four armored corps with infantry and air support on the Spanish border (!). On the Eastern front I consolidated my forces.
El Quemado’s response was purely defensive. He made the fewest moves he could; he strengthened some defenses; most of all, he asked questions. His plays still reveal what a novice he is. He doesn’t know how to stack the counters, he plays sloppily, he has either no grand strategy or the one he has is too schematic, he trusts in luck, he makes mistakes in his calculations of BRP, he confuses the Creation of Units phase with the SR.
Still, he tries and it seems that he’s beginning to get into the spirit of the game. I can tell by the way he keeps his eyes glued to the board and by the way the charred planes of his face twist in an effort to calculate retreats and costs.
It inspires sympathy and pity. A dense kind of pity, I should note, leached of color, cuadriculated.
The church square was lonely and poorly lit. I parked the car on a side street and settled down to wait on a stone bench. I felt good, although when Frau Else appeared—she literally materialized from the formless mass of shadows under the only tree in the plaza—I couldn’t help jumping in surprise and alarm.
I suggested leaving town, maybe parking the car in the woods or somewhere with a view of the sea, but she refused.
She talked. She talked freely and without pause, as if she’d been silent for days. In conclusion, she gave a vague, allusive explanation of her husband’s illness. Only after that did she allow me to kiss her. And yet from the very start our hands had met, our fingers naturally interlacing.
There we stayed, holding hands, until two thirty in the morning. When we got tired of sitting, we took a walk around the square; then we returned to the bench and kept talking.
I talked a lot too, I suppose.
The silence of the square was interrupted only by a brief series of distant cries (of happiness or desperation?) and then the roar of motorcycles.
I think we kissed five times.
On our way back I suggested parking the car far from the hotel; I had her reputation in mind. Laughing, she refused; she isn’t afraid of gossip. (The truth is she isn’t afraid of anything.)
The church square is rather sad, small and dark and silent. In the center rises a medieval stone fountain with two jets of water. Before we left we drank from it.
“When you die, Udo, you’ll be able to say, ‘I’m returning to where I came from: Nothingness.’ ”
“When a person’s dying, he’ll say anything,” I answered.
After this exchange, Frau Else’s face shone as if I’d just kissed her. And that was exactly what I did then—I kissed her. But when I tried to slip my tongue between her lips she pulled away.
SEPTEMBER 6
I don’t know whether the Wolf has lost his job or the Lamb has, or both of them have. They grumble and complain but I hardly hear them. I do, however, register their low-frequency fear and rage. The owner of the Andalusia Lodge makes merciless fun of them and their misfortunes. He calls them “bums,” “dirty bastards,” “AIDS scum,” “beach faggots,” “deadbeats”; then he takes me aside, laughing, and tells me a story that I can’t follow but that’s about a rape in which they’re somehow implicated. Showing no curiosity whatsoever— though the owner is talking loud enough for everyone to hear—the Wolf and the Lamb are mesmerized by some TV sports show. This is the generation of kids that were going to put their shoulder to the wheel! This troop of zombies was going to bring glory to Spain, I shit on the Holy Virgin! the owner ends his speech. There’s nothing left for me to do but nod and return to the table with the Spaniards and order another beer. Later, through the half-open bathroom door, I see the Lamb pulling down his pants.
After I ate I headed to the Costa Brava. I was received by Mr. Pere as if it had been years since our last meeting. Our conversation—trivial—this time took place at the hotel bar, where I got to know more than a few of the manager’s circle of friends. They all radiated an air of distinction and boredom, and, naturally, they were all over forty; when I was introduced to them, they treated me with great tact. It was as if they had been presented with a celebrity or, rather, a young man of promise. Clearly Mr. Pere and I were charmed by each other.
Later, at Navy Headquarters (my visits to the Costa Brava inevitably lead there), I was told there was no news about Charly. Not intending to cause trouble, I decided to venture some suppositions. Wasn’t it strange that his body hadn’t turned up yet? Was it possible that he was still alive, suffering from amnesia and wandering around some town on the coast? I think even the two bored secretaries gave me looks of pity.
I took a leisurely walk back to the Del Mar and was able to confirm what I’d already sensed: the town is beginning to empty, there are fewer and fewer tourists, the natives’ movements are infused with a cyclical weariness. And yet the air and the sky and the sea shine clear and pure. Breathing is a delight. And anyone out for a stroll can stand and stare at whatever catches his eye without the risk of being shoved or mistaken for a drunk.
When the owner of the Andalusia Lodge disappeared into the back, I brought up the subject of the rape.
The Wolf and the Lamb guffawed and said it was all in the old man’s head. I got the sense that they were making fun of me.
When I left I paid only for what I’d had to drink. The Spaniards’ faces turned stony. Significantly, our good-byes made reference to the date of my departure. (It’s as if everyone is eager for me to leave.) At the last minute, they tried to patch things up by offering to go with me to Navy Headquarters, but I refused.
Summer 1940. The match has heated up. Against expectations, El Quemado was able to transfer enough troops to the Mediterranean to cushion against my strikes. Even more important: he guessed that it wasn’t Alexandria but Malta that was under threat, and he fortified the island with infantry, air, and naval forces. On the Western front the situation remains unchanged (after the conquest of France a turn is necessary for the Western armies to regroup and receive replacements and reinforcements); my troops there have trained their sights on En gland— the invasion of which would demand a considerable logistical effort, but El Quemado doesn’t know that—and on Spain, an unnecessary conquest but one that clears the way to Gibraltar, without which English control of the Mediterranean is almost nonexistent. (This play, recommended by Terry Butcher in The General, involves moving the Italian fleet into the Atlantic.) In any case, El Quemado doesn’t expect an attack on Gibraltar by land; on the contrary, my movements in the East and the Balkans (after the classic play: the obliteration of Yugoslavia and Greece) make him fear an impending invasion of the Soviet Union— I think my friend sympathizes with the Reds— and neglect other fronts. My position, needless to say, is enviable. Operation Black Beard, perhaps with a Turkish strategic variant, promises to be exciting. El Quemado’s spirits never flag. He isn’t a brilliant player or an impulsive one: his movements are calm and methodical. The hours have gone by in silence; we’ve spoken only when strictly necessary, questions about the rules receiving clear and honest answers, our play unfolding in enviable harmony. I’m writing this as El Quemado takes his turn. It’s interesting: the game relaxes him, I see it in the muscles of his arms and chest, as if at last he’s able to look at himself and not see anything. Or as if he sees only the tortured Europe of the game board and the grand maneuvers and countermaneuvers.
The session took place as if in a fog. On our way out of the room, in the hallway, we ran into a maid who upon seeing us stifled a scream and went running. I glanced at El Quemado, unable to say a thing; embarrassment for him stung me until we got on the elevator. Then I thought that perhaps it wasn’t El Quemado’s face that had given the maid a fright. My sense that I was treading on uncertain ground grew sharper.
We parted on the hotel terrace. A quick handshake, a smile, and finally El Quemado disappeared, ambling offalong the Paseo Marítimo.
The terrace was empty. In the restaurant, which was livelier, I spotted Frau Else. She was sitting at a table near the bar with two men in suits and ties. I was struck by the idea that one of them was her husband, though he looked nothing like the way I remembered him. Their conversation had every appearance of being a business meeting and I didn’t want to intrude. Nor did I want to seem timid, and with that in mind I went up to the bar and ordered a beer. The waiter took more than five minutes to bring it to me. He wasn’t slow because the bar was so busy, since it was hardly busy at all; he just chose to dawdle until I had run out of patience. Only then did he bring the beer, and I could sense the defiance and hostility in his attitude, as if he were waiting for the slightest complaint from me to start a fight. But that was unthinkable with Frau Else right there, so I tossed a few coins on the bar and waited. No reaction. The miserable waiter shrank against the shelves of bottles and stared at the floor. He seemed to be angry at the whole world, starting with himself.
I drank my beer in peace. Frau Else, regrettably, continued to be immersed in conversation with her tablemates and she chose to pretend she didn’t see me. I supposed she had her reasons, and I decided to leave.
In the room I was surprised by the smell of tobacco and stale air. The lamp had been left on, and for an instant I thought that Ingeborg had come back. But the smell, in an almost tangible way, ruled out the possibility of a woman. (Strange: I had never stopped to think about smells.) All of this depressed me, and I resolved to go for a drive.
I circled slowly through the empty streets of the town. A warm breeze swept the sidewalks, scattering paper wrappings and advertising leaflets.
Only every so often did the figures of drunk tourists emerge from the shadows, stumbling blindly toward their hotels.
I don’t know what made me stop on the Paseo Marítimo. But I did, and inevitably I found myself on the dark beach, heading toward the abode of El Quemado.
What did I expect to find there?
The voices stopped me by the time I could see the fortress of pedal boats rising from the sand.
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El Quemado had visitors.
With extreme caution, almost crawling, I approached; whoever was there preferred to talk outside. Soon I could make out two shapes: El Quemado and his guest were sitting in the sand with their backs to me, gazing out to sea.
It was the other man who was leading the conversation: a quick series of grunts of which I could catch only stray words like “necessity” and “courage.”
I didn’t dare go any closer.
Then, after a long silence, the wind stopped blowing and a kind of weight of warm stone fell over the beach.
Someone—which of the two I don’t know—was talking in a vague and lighthearted way about some “bet,” something “forgotten and done with.” Then he laughed . . . Then he got up and walked toward the water’s edge . . . Then he turned around and said something I couldn’t hear.
For an instant—a mad instant that made my hair stand on end—I thought it was Charly: his profile, his way of letting his head slump as if he had a broken neck, his sudden silences. Good old Charly, escaped from the dirty waters of the Mediterranean in order to . . . give sibylline advice to El Quemado. A kind of stiffness migrated from my arms to the rest of my body as my sense of logic fought to regain control. All I wanted was to get out of there. Then, as if the rest of the conversation was simply reinforcing the madness, I heard the kind of advice that El Quemado’s visitor was giving him. “How to stop the strikes?” “Don’t worry about the strikes; worry about breaks in the line.” “How to avoid them?” “Reinforce the front line; annihilate any advances of the armored units; always keep an operative reserve.”
Advice on how to beat me in Third Reich!
More concretely, El Quemado was receiving instructions on how to counter what he saw as imminent: the invasion of Russia!
I closed my eyes and tried to pray. I couldn’t. I thought that I’d never get the madness out of my head. I was sweating and the sand stuck to my face. My whole body itched and I was afraid (if I can call it that) that suddenly I’d see Charly’s shining face looming above me. The filthy traitor. The thought jolted my eyes open; there was no one next to the pedal boat shack. They must both be inside, I thought. I was wrong: the shadowy figures were still standing at the water’s edge with the waves licking their ankles. They had their backs to me. In the sky the clouds parted for a moment and the moon shone weakly. El Quemado and his visitor were talking now—as if it were the most pleasant of subjects—about a rape. With some effort I rose to my knees and grew a little calmer. It wasn’t Charly, I told myself a few times. Elementary: El Quemado and his visitor were speaking in Spanish and Charly couldn’t even order a beer in Spanish.