Читать книгу The Anarchist Who Shared My Name - Pablo Martín Sánchez - Страница 16

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The publishing and distribution of anarchist literature during those months corresponded to the International Bookstore at 14 Rue Petit, which served as the headquarters of the International Anarchist Publishing Group, under the direction of Férandel; as the publishing house of the trilingual bulletin Revista Internacional Anarquista, founded in November; and, finally, as the residence of the Spanish Committee of Anarchist Relations.

ANTONIO ELORZA,

El anarcosindicalismo español bajo la dictadura

“WHAT A DIRTY TRAP,” PABLO REPROACHED Robinsón as they were leaving La Rotonde last night. As they were arriving at home, he added, “You deserve to spend the night on the floor with Kropotkin.” But Robinsón’s only reply was his most innocent smile.

Today he has come to invite Pablo out to eat. Having worked hard all morning, Pablo eagerly accepts the invitation, making an effort to forget the dirty trick at La Rotonde.

“Today I’m going to take you to the vegetarian café on Rue Mathis,” says Robinsón, tugging at his beard with delight. “It’s time to celebrate, because since last night, we’re in the same boat.”

“We’ve always been in the same boat, Robin, but until now you never seemed so intent on making sure I drown with you. Do you really think this revolutionary movement is going to succeed?”

“If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing.”

“Well, I’d wager that in Spain even the rats have figured it out, with all the ruckus you’re making. Martínez Anido must be licking his chops.”

“That’s the paradox of any revolution, Pablito. On the one hand, you have to shout so that the people can hear about it and get on board, and on the other hand, you have to whisper so that the ones you want to take down don’t hear about it. Of course they’re aware in Spain that over here we’re getting ready to overthrow the government; they’ve known it since day one of their coup. And they’re afraid of us—of course they’re afraid of us, because they can control the people on the inside, but not us, especially since the French government is protecting us more than they’d prefer. Look what happened with the repatriation of Cándido Rey: the prime minister fired the guy who authorized it for not respecting the right to asylum. And now it seems that Primo is going to have to suck it up and send him back to us. In any case, the important thing is keeping the plan secret, so they don’t know how or when or where we’re going to arrive. And of course they don’t know that, since we don’t even know ourselves!”

The two friends smile as they leave La Fraternelle and head toward Place des Fêtes to catch the metro. As they walk past the Point du Jour, they hear shouting inside. They turn their heads and see Leandro going berserk, cursing as he tries to strangle the café’s owner, Monsieur Dubois, who, pinned against the bar, is trying to defend himself by feebly kicking at his attacker. Pablo and Robinsón run inside and release the prey from Leandro’s clutches. Dubois falls on the floor panting, while the two friends try to shove the Argentinian giant out the door. The latter finally goes out, leaving in his wake a string of the worst French insults he knows, which are not worth listing here: just go ahead and think of the nastiest curses that come to mind, and with a little luck you’ll be halfway there.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Pablo shouts while making the final effort to get Leandro out of there. “Have you gone mad, or what?”

The Argentinian is still out of his head, hollering in the direction of the Point du Jour like a man possessed, until Pablo, who has never seen him like this, smacks his face, leaving him agog mid-insult. There is a brief moment of silence and uncertainty, until Leandro lifts his hand to his cheek, spits on the ground and steps on the sputum, which is more of a compulsive tic than a sign of disgust (he once accidentally spat on a dog and had to chase it for several blocks until he managed to step on it).

“Come on, let’s get out of here before Dubois calls the police,” Pablo says, and after a few seconds he adds: “You like vegetarian food, Leandro?”

“Are you kidding?” the Argentinian barks, still smarting. “In my country eating plants is against the law.”

“Then today’s the beginning of your life of crime. Sorry.”

And the three young men descend into the metro, headed for the vegetarian restaurant.

“Damn, che, even my daddy never smacked me like that,” Leandro complains, rubbing his chubby cheek, while he asks for three second-class tickets.

“Maybe he should have,” Pablo replies.

Since today is Sunday, the metro is less busy than usual and there are a few seats free, which would be unthinkable during the week in a city where hundreds of thousands of people take the underground every day. The advertising industry has taken note of the business potential, and the station walls bear brightly colored posters, such as this one for Dubonnet liqueur, an image that many Parisians are talking about: a cat behind a bottle that bears a label depicting a cat behind a bottle, which in turn has a label depicting a cat behind a bottle, and so forth until you can no longer make it out. Leandro plops himself into the second-class seat, which protests bitterly, its wooden bones creaking; perhaps it envies its colleagues in first class, covered with leather upholstery to soften such assaults.

And while the metro snakes around underground, with a roar that reinforces the feeling of speed, Leandro tells them what happened. Monsieur Dubois accused him of stealing money from the bar’s register, to which he responded that that’s a very serious accusation and that he should apologize. The old man told him that he was the boss and that he didn’t have to apologize to anybody, and that, furthermore, he could prove it. The Argentinian yelled, did he have witnesses, and Dubois responded that his only witness was the new cash register, more efficient than the best snitch. Then the giant from Buenos Aires filled with rage and started insulting his boss, calling him a bourgeois exploiter and a bloodsucker, and saying that if he believed a cash register over an honest worker, he was more rotten than Rockefeller. Dubois told him he was fired. And the next thing Leandro remembers is being slapped by Pablo—

“You were strangling him,” Robinsón refreshes his memory, “and the cash register was dumped on the floor.”

“He deserved it, the son of a bitch,” Leandro harrumphs. “You should have let me finish the job. The old guy thinks he’s so smart … but if it hadn’t been for that damned cash register, he never would have noticed!”

Pablo and Robinsón shoot astonished looks at their newly unemployed friend as they exit the train at the station Louis Blanc to connect with the line to Crimée.

“What’re you all lookin’ at?” Leandro says in his own defense, shrugging. “Do you really think that I could get by on what that bastard was paying me?”

The three friends continue on their way, laughing. The vegetarian restaurant is in the neighborhood of La Villette, one of Paris’s most dangerous in the eyes of the moneyed bourgeoisie, but where you can eat like a king if you leave your prejudices behind, which will soon become evident to Pablo and even to Leandro, following the advice of Robinsón, and that of the Esperanto-speaking Galician and the two other vegetarians who sit at their table, and who claim to have decided to join the revolutionary mission.

THAT NIGHT, WHILE PABLO IS CLOSING up the print shop and getting out his bike, he hears a whistle behind him, accompanied by the barking of Kropotkin: at the end of Rue Pixérécourt, the silhouetted outline of Robinsón’s bowler is visible, along with his slight but unmistakable limp. Pablo goes to meet him.

“You’ve become my shadow, Robin. Are you afraid I’ll leave you for another?”

“Absolutely. There’s no better shadow in all of Paris. Listen, the Committee wants to talk with you.”

“Have they obtained the paper?”

“No, it’s something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, they didn’t want to tell me.”

“Fine, but they can wait until I get back from Marly, can’t they?”

“Mmm, I don’t think so, it seems urgent. They’re meeting at the shop on Rue Petit. I told them that I’d come fetch you …”

Pablo makes a bitter face.

“Come on, Pablito, with the bike we’ll be there in no time. And the meeting’s sure to be short.”

“Look, Robin, you’re starting to get on my nerves with your ideas. If, someday, I decide to sign up for your crazy expedition, you’ll be the first to know it, don’t worry. In the meantime, stop nagging. And don’t give me that sad puppy-dog face …”

But Robinsón is making the sad puppy dog face. And so is Kropotkin.

“Fine, here, get on,” Pablo finally caves in. “The sooner we get it over with, the better.”

They cross the Rue de Belleville and go down the precipitous Rue Crimée, pass alongside the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont and then arrive at Rue Petit. Up high on number 14, a streetlight illuminates the International Bookstore sign with its peeling letters. Through the dirty panes one can see shelves full of books, along with several copies of Le Libertaire, a weekly published here by the French comrades of the Anarcho-Communist Union, under the supervision of Séverin Férandel and his partner Berthe Favert, who some say is the lover of Francisco Ascaso.

“No, around back,” Robinsón points, when Pablo heads for the main door. “Kropotkin, you stay here and guard the bike.”

“Around back” means that they have to go to Rue du Rhin, climb over a six-foot wall, cross a thicketed little wasteland, and knock on a door that is halfway hidden in the wall. One, two, three knocks; then, after a pause, two more knocks. Then the door opens as if by magic. On the other side there is the little room where the meetings of the Group of Thirty take place, dominated by a vast table that takes up almost the entire room; around it, a few chairs and boxes of books serve as places to sit. The upper echelon is there in a meeting, but when Robinsón and Pablo enter, some of them excuse themselves and leave, including Durruti. The only ones who remain are Vivancos, Ascaso, and Massoni. The room stinks of tobacco, and moisture has drawn maps of other worlds on the walls. A bad climate for books.

“Sit down, Pablo, please,” chirps Vivancos, who at last night’s meeting at La Rotonde didn’t deign to open his mouth. He has a soft, soothing voice, almost a whisper, contrasting with his appearance, which is like that of an executioner or an abbot, and he drags out his esses a bit when he speaks. “We won’t keep you long. Robinsón has told us that tomorrow you are taking the nine o’clock train to Lille.”

“Well, not exactly,” says Pablo. “I’m going to Marly, but the train stops in Lille before that, yes.”

“And in Amiens.”

“Yes, in Amiens as well, of course.”

“So, we would like to ask you to do us a little favor, not much effort on your part, but of great importance to us.”

“Look, if it’s up to me—”

“It merely involves passing a letter in Amiens. You don’t even have to get off the train. While the train is stopped there, our contact will enter the last car. He will be carrying a doctor’s bag, which will be slightly open. When you see him enter, you stand up and act like you’re crossing the aisle. Then you drop the letter in the medical bag.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes, that’s all. Well, wait. When are you returning?”

“Friday morning.”

“Will it be possible to get ahold of you in Marly?”

“Yes, I’m going to look after a country house. It has a telephone.”

“No. No telephones. In any case, when you return on Friday, keep an eye out for the doctor again in Amiens. If he enters the train, it means he has something to give you. Same game in reverse, and that’s it.”

Pablo looks steadily at Vivancos, then at Massoni and then Ascaso.

“Just one question. Why me? I mean, if this letter is so important, why don’t you deliver it yourselves instead of entrusting it to me, someone you barely know? Amiens isn’t so far away—”

“You’re right, but this is the safest method,” this time it is Ascaso who speaks. “You’ve been making this trip every week for a while now, I imagine that the agents and conductors recognize you, so you won’t raise any suspicions. We, on the other hand—the police know us.”

“And can you tell me the contents of this letter?”

“For your safety, it’s better if you don’t know. It is highly confidential; the only ones who know are those of us who were here when you walked in.”

“Yeah, I figured; otherwise, you’d just stick the envelope in the mailbox. And what happens if there is a checkpoint before I get to Amiens and they confiscate the letter?”

“Let’s hope that that doesn’t happen,” Ascaso replies emphatically. “In any case, if you see anything strange or suspicious, the best thing to do is get rid of it. Tear it up and throw it out the window.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Yes: thank you for your assistance.”

“Good luck,” Vivancos adds, in his velvety voice, offering a handshake and the envelope.

“I hope I won’t need it,” Pablo responds, putting the letter in the hidden pocket in the lining of his jacket. He leaves, accompanied by Robinsón, resigned to his new role as a guinea pig.

THE NEXT MORNING PABLO WAKES UP with a start, after a night of insomnia, with the impression of having fallen asleep with the last breath. But no, it’s not an impression, it’s reality: you did fall asleep, Pablo, and if you don’t hurry you will miss the morning train. So jump out of bed and run to the station, but be careful not to step on Robinsón, who is still peacefully snoring at your feet.

Pablo puts on his pants and shoes in a hurry, grabs a bag and stuffs it with his four necessities, and runs out of the house in such a hurry that he treads on Kropotkin’s tail, and the dog starts barking hysterically. He leaps down three stairs at a time, and running out into the street he realizes he’s forgotten his jacket. With the letter he’s supposed to pass in Amiens in the pocket. He runs back up the seven flights of stairs and discovers that Kropotkin is no longer on the landing but in bed with Robinsón. They both look at him with the same face, a mix of guilt and sleep. Without saying anything, Pablo grabs his jacket and runs out the door. Entering the Gare du Nord, the train has just started rolling, but he manages to catch it on the run. He finds a seat in the rear car as Vivancos instructed, remembering what his father used to say: in case of a crash, the last car is the safest. In any case, it’s the car he always chooses and would continue taking even if it were the most dangerous, because it’s the only third-class car, with its stiff wooden benches lined up two-by-two. But try as he might to distract himself thinking of other things, the letter is burning in his jacket pocket. And if he knew its contents, it would burn him even more.

The contact in Amiens is Juan Rodríguez, a somewhat posh expatriate from Extremadura better known as El Galeno—“the Physician”—although he never completed his medical studies. In Amiens, nevertheless, he works as a barber in the back room of a drugstore behind the cathedral. His assistant is another Spanish expatriate, Blas Serrano, said by gossips to be his lover. Times have really changed, and the village barber no longer extracts molars, provides abortions, or applies mustard plasters; now he busies himself trying to round up money for the anarchist movement among the Spanish workers residing in this region of northern France known as Picardy. The letter Pablo is carrying in his pocket, written on a gridded sheet, is signed with the initials M.G.V., and it as brief as it is dangerous. The smooth, elegant handwriting does not mask the bitterness of the words, which complain of the anarchist movement’s lack of resources and the scant cooperation of the French comrades, informing Juan Rodríguez of the importance of continuing the fundraising effort among the Spanish workers living in Amiens, and lamenting the slavery we are subjected to by “that powerful gentleman known as Don Dinero, that treacherous opiate invented by the bourgeoisie to dirty our hands and spirit.”

The script becomes a bit more hesitant when the letter gets into material matters, as though the words were afraid to say more than necessary when asking El Galeno to engage a mission of “the most absolute transcendence”: obtaining weapons, in great quantity and at low cost, because the medical student-cum-barber has good contacts among the workers of the region employed in the recovery of war materiel, who have a habit of trafficking their spoils even though the regulations require all weapons to be turned over to military engineers for destruction. Further on, the words again complain of the movement’s financial problems, and give way to numbers quoting the prices Rodríguez can offer the traffickers: a maximum of thirty francs per rifle and fifty for each case of “bombillas,” revolutionary slang for grenades; no point buying “pieces,” as there is a surplus of pistols at this time. The last thing El Galeno will read will be a few curt words of closure and thanks, and advice to destroy the letter as soon as he’s done reading it.

Finally, the imposing cathedral of Amiens appears in the distance, announcing that the train is drawing close to the city. Pablo has not taken off his coat, and sweat is starting to run down his back. He is suddenly seized by the apprehension that he is attracting too much attention by keeping his coat on. He looks around and it seems that everyone is watching him, silently appraising his behavior. A little old woman in front of him, nose and cheeks covered with warts, makes a face that says you’ll see when you get off, you’ll catch your death of cold. Fortunately, the train starts to brake as it arrives at the Amiens station, slowing with light jerks. Pablo stands up, lowers the window and pokes his head out; when the train stops, a few travelers get off. Then he sees the man with the medical bag helping a pregnant woman with her luggage. His heart racing, Pablo leaves his position at the window and makes his way to the back of the car, toward the door the man has just entered. In the aisle, he subtly takes the letter from his inside coat pocket and nearly crashes into the pregnant woman; one second later he is next to the supposed doctor, whose medical bag is slightly open. Passing by his side, Pablo drops the letter in and continues on his way. No eye contact. Returning to his seat, Pablo still has time to catch a glimpse of the man with the medical bag leaving the station in the company of another man. Before he sits down again, he finally removes his coat, and the wart-faced woman shakes her head as if to say: it’s about time, son, it’s about time.