Читать книгу The Anarchist Who Shared My Name - Pablo Martín Sánchez - Страница 18

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Miguel García Vivancos learned the mechanic’s trade at the age of 13, before emigrating to Barcelona in 1909, where the death of his father left him orphaned. He was a founding member of the group Los Solidarios, started in 1922 along with Buenaventura Durruti, Francisco Ascaso, and Juan García Oliver, among others. After the attack in August 1923 on the Bank of Spain in Gijón, he was arrested and incarcerated for three months, but he managed to foil the police investigations and was set free. He then departed for Paris with several members of the group and was given the task of procuring weapons for the rebellion against the dictatorship of Primo de Rivera. After having negotiated with a Belgian trafficker for the purchase of rifles and ammunition, he participated in the operation at Vera de Bidasoa on 7 November 1924.

International Dictionary of Anarchist Militants

AFTER A FEW RATHER QUIET DAYS in Marly, Pablo returns to Paris on Friday, October 24. As the train passes through Amiens, he peers through the window of the rear car to see if the man with the medical bag is in the station again. He does not see him, so he goes to the aisle to check the rear platform. Not a trace. He returns to his seat and waits to arrive in Paris, watching the landscape go by. A few drops fall, but the sun manages to climb through a crack in the wall of clouds, resulting in an unusually beautiful sight: a rainbow, glowing with the deceptive clarity of illusion. For a moment, Pablo believes he is in the fields of Castile, riding Lucero and clinging to his father’s belt. He closes his eyes and falls into a reverie for several minutes. When he opens them again, the sad spectacle of the shabby houses of the Parisian outskirts—known, with a certain disdain, as the banlieue—snap him out of his daydream and back into reality. Arriving with a little time to spare, he decides to stop by home before going to the print shop. When he enters, something catches his attention. The mattress is still on the floor, and there is a suitcase in the corner that was not there when he left for Marly. And on top of the table, a hollow gourd, the one Leandro the Argentine giant uses for his yerba maté. Only then does he discover a note on the bed cover. It is from Robinsón and reads: “Pablo, the police are looking for Leandro. Seems Dubois ratted him out. They searched his house and put out a warrant for his arrest. It’s best if he hides out here for a few days, don’t you think? In any case, the nut says that if they don’t want him here in France, he’ll come with me to participate in the revolution in Spain. I will see you soon and tell you when things have settled a bit. Robinsón.” Pablo lets out a sigh and tears the note into little pieces.

But the weekend will be calmer than expected. First, because Sébastien Faure is traveling in Switzerland, giving a series of talks trying to demonstrate the nonexistence of God. Second, because the Committee of Anarchist Relations has still not obtained the paper for the broadsides. And third, because Robinsón and Leandro are going on a trip, of which they inform Pablo that evening when they go to find him at La Fraternelle. That is, when Robinsón shows up with a giant man dressed in a black trench coat to his knees and a wide-brimmed hat that hides his face.

“You coming from a costume party or what? Pablo asks mockingly when he sees them appear at the door.

“Che, don’t you know that the cops are looking for me? The old man reported me.”

“Yeah, I know. But dressed like that you’ll attract even more attention. You’d have a better chance of going unnoticed dressed as a woman.”

But Leandro is in no mood for jokes, something’s not right with him. Exhausted, he flops onto a chair, which cannot sustain the burden and collapses like a house of cards.

Pablo and Robinsón try to contain their laughter as they help him to his feet.

“Look, Leandro, what you ought to do is hide out for a few days here in the hovel,” Pablo proposes as he gathers up the pieces of wood and tries to put the chair back together, “or, better yet, you should take a little visit to the country, you could come with me to Marly and hide out in the villa. What you cannot do is keep on wandering around Paris like this.”

“That’s what I said on the way here,” Robinsón interjects, “in fact, we were thinking about heading south together tomorrow. The Committee has asked me to go supervise the recruitment down there. Seems they don’t much trust the guy responsible for recruiting in Bordeaux, Bayonne, Biarritz, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, and the other towns and cities in the region.”

“I thought the ones they didn’t trust were you and your buddies from the Lyon syndicate. That’s a lot of distrust to make a revolution, don’t you think?”

“Well, situations like this one involve certain risks.”

“And what do you think, Leandro?” Pablo asks.

“About what?” asks the Argentine, a bit distracted.

“About traveling, about what’s going to happen?”

“It suits me just fine. That way I won’t have to keep wearing these clothes. Anyway, I’m sick of this damn city, it can go to hell.”

The impetus for Robinsón’s trip was a telegram that the Committee of Anarchist Relations received earlier this week, sent from Bordeaux, in which the comrades of the Syndicate of Spanish Expatriates stated that they would not be continuing the work of propaganda and recruitment they had been assigned: “Sorry, cant handle matter. Saint-Jean-de-Luz person taking over. Name Max Hernández. Sncrly Syndicate Spanish Expatriates.” The Group of Thirty was not at all pleased with this news. They met yesterday at the center on Rue Petit and made the decision to send someone to the region to supervise the work performed by this Max, who went by the sobriquet “El Señorito.” And it was Robinsón who drew the short straw.

“That’s enough talk,” said Robinsón. “Tomorrow we’re going to get some southern sun, it’s already frightfully cold here. That way we’ll give dear Pablo a little peace. Even he needs some privacy from time to time,” he adds with a wink.

But that will not be until tomorrow. Tonight, the three of them will be sharing the hovel. Or, to be more accurate, the four of them; it’s starting to be too cold on the landing for Kropotkin, poor fellow.

THE WEEKEND PASSES UNEVENTFULLY AND, AS if trying to contradict Robinsón, the weather is generous to the Parisians, offering them an unexpected warm spell for Saint Martin’s feast day. Everyone seems to agree that they have to take advantage of it, and they go out en masse, wearing expressions of confused joy and rare good humor. At the Jardin de Luxembourg, a few young women are even trying to sunbathe, emulating Coco Chanel, who introduced the fashion of tanning two years ago by visiting Cannes with a garish bronze look. But Pablo knows that all this is an illusion, the calm before the storm. Not only because news of torrential rain keeps coming from the north of the country, but also because he has a premonition that his life is about to take an unexpected turn.

On Monday morning, Pablo goes to the Gare du Nord to take the train toward Lille. The sky has already gone overcast, and before getting into the train he buys Le Quotidien from a newsboy, one of the many who have proliferated in Paris since the end of the Great War. The front page shows a photo of the English swimmer Zetta Hills, who is planning to swim across the English Channel, wearing a specially designed rubber suit. There is also a headline stating that a professor from the University of Barcelona, Dr. Dualde, has been arrested in Gerona for reading Le Quotidien. Inside there is an article by Unamuno, in which, after fiercely attacking the Spanish Government and Primo de Rivera, he finishes by announcing his participation in a meeting at the Salle des Sociétés Savantes (together with Blasco Ibáñez and Ortega y Gasset), which he hopes will be attended by everyone with enough dignity to lift up their voices against Rivera’s Directory, which is the shame of old Europe and of the whole world. But Pablo still has not finished reading the article when he gets into the rear train car and sits in the window seat, at the very moment when Vivancos, thin as a rail, passes on the platform wearing a monocle and a top hat. Their gazes meet, and Vivancos makes a barely visible gesture, but an eloquent one. Better if we’re not seen together, he seems to say, and he makes off for the first class cars, because he knows that the best way to be left alone is to wear fine clothes and appear wealthy.

Pablo tries to read Unamuno’s article, but he can’t concentrate. It does not get any easier when, at the stop prior to Amiens, two policemen board the train, packing pistols and billy clubs. “Routine inspection,” they say as the train starts moving again. “Please have your papers out.” They go to the front seats and start inspecting IDs, followed closely by the conductor. Seconds later, Vivancos appears in the third class car, with a suitcase in hand, and gestures to Pablo to follow him to the rear platform, where no one can hear them. In fact, they can barely hear each other over all the racket.

“Listen,” says Vivancos, his smooth voice dissimulating his anxiety, “those gendarmes give me the creeps. Take this briefcase. If anything happens to me, get off in Amiens and give it to El Galeno, the guy you passed the letter to the other day. He will be there waiting on the bench next to the cafeteria. Then get back on the train as though nothing happened. You have your papers in order, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Great. Now go back to your seat and act normal.”

Pablo returns to his seat with his guts in a twist and a burning object in his hands. That makes two hot items in the last two trips, first a letter and now a briefcase. Fortunately, once again he doesn’t know what it contains, because if he did, he would be pale with panic. He places it on the floor, hiding it under his seat. From where he sits he can see the rear platform, but not Vivancos, who is outside his field of vision leaning on the rail. When the gendarmes reach his seat, Pablo greets them with the best French accent he can muster.

“Espagnol?” the younger one asks, after looking at his ID.

“Oui, bien sûr,” Pablo replies.

The young officer looks at him suspiciously and whispers something to the other gendarme, who shakes his head, pointing at the bottom of the ID card where it says that Pablo Martín Sánchez resides in Marly-les-Valenciennes. This appears to allay their suspicions, but just to be sure they call the conductor over. He drags his feet as he approaches. Stuttering, he explains to them that this is a regular passenger who makes this trip every week. The younger gendarme seems perturbed, but he gives Pablo back his papers. They continue on with their inspection, and when they are finished they exchange a few words without coming to an agreement. Finally, the younger one returns to the head of the train, while the other takes a cigarette from a case, lifts it to his mouth and walks to the rear of the car and goes out onto the platform. From where Pablo sits, he can see the gendarme’s surprise to discover Vivancos, as he removes the cigarette from his mouth and asks him something, perhaps requesting his documentation. The policeman makes another surprised face and speaks again, with a gesture that says, “Follow me, sir.” For a moment, nothing happens. Then he lifts his hand to his belt in a threatening manner. Suddenly a fist emerges into view and strikes the gendarme square in the face, knocking him down. When he manages to get up, he takes his pistol out and begins firing, not toward where the fist had come from, but toward the rear, into the distance, where Vivancos has tumbled to the ground after jumping from the moving train.

The nearby passengers shriek at the sound of gunshots. They crowd the aisles and peer out the windows. A woman at the rear of the car faints, and her companion shouts for a doctor. The young gendarme comes running, pistol at the ready as his colleague reenters the car with blood gushing from his nose. “Stop the train!” he shouts, cursing the fugitive’s mother and family, but the train is already braking for its arrival at the Amiens station. When it comes to a halt, the two gendarmes leap down. “Don’t let anyone off this train!” shouts the younger cop, as he starts running back to the spot where Vivancos disappeared. The other one goes to the cafeteria to ask for a towel and some water to clean up the blood, and a few passengers, half-frightened and half-intrigued, take advantage of his absence to get off the train, ignoring the stuttered warnings of the train agent, who tries in vain to remind them of the police’s orders. Someone gets out a bottle of pastis to try to revive the woman who fainted. Others whose final destination is Amiens take the opportunity to leave, not wanting to waste their whole morning over the incident. Pablo exits the train just in time to see El Galeno leaving the station. Feeling as though he’s carrying a ticking time bomb, he runs after him without thinking twice. He finds him in the street hailing a taxi, sidles up to him and puts the briefcase on the ground. El Galeno looks at him sideways, and either recognizes him or at least understands the situation. He picks up the briefcase and gets into the taxi, which speeds away. When Pablo returns to the train, the crowd is still in a frenzy, though the young woman has finally regained consciousness. The injured gendarme returns from the cafeteria with two pieces of cloth stuffed into his nostrils, and orders everyone back onto the train. He makes a telephone call to the gendarmerie of Amiens to request backup. His colleague returns drenched in sweat, boots covered with mud. “Rien de rien,” he says.

Within a few minutes, five more gendarmes arrive. Two of them get on the train and give the engineer the go-ahead to continue the journey. From this day forward, Pablo Martín Sánchez will have a record with the French police, as will another eighty-three passengers, all as innocent as him. Or perhaps slightly more innocent, you might say, considering that the briefcase Pablo has just passed to El Galeno contains fifteen thousand francs intended for the illegal purchase of contraband firearms.

As the train is leaving Amiens, the first thunderclap resounds. Shortly, a furious rainstorm erupts.