he dared to ask.
“Not far from here, near the head office of La Época. I’m going that way, you want me to show you?”
Pablo affirmed shyly as he memorized the name of the square where he had left his father.
“You’re not thinking of going to see the cinematograph, are you?” the newsboy asked as he gathered up his papers.
To which Pablo merely nodded his head.
– 3 –
One result of the propaganda produced on French soil was that it won over a vast number of the wretches residing there, most of them anarchists, communists, syndicalists, and others, who, incited by the idea of returning to their various points of origin or dragged along by the dictates of their self-regard, which for some was more ideologically driven than for others, but all of them sneering at their duty toward their mother Spain and their fellow citizens, volunteered, having acquired quantities of cash, weapons, munitions, and methods of transportation, to come to Spain in order to execute the plan laid out by their inciters.
Diario de Navarra, 13 January 1927
THE WHIRLWIND OF REVOLUTION APPEARS TO be intent on sweeping Pablo up, but he will be the last to realize it. After the conversation at the Point du Jour with his two friends, he returns to the printing house, where Julianín has made fewer errors than usual. Pablo works until well into the night, with the help of Robinsón, who substitutes for Julianín after the young apprentice’s shift has ended, putting on coveralls and rolling up his sleeves like a real professional. They forgo sleep to make sure that the weekly Ex-Ilio can be distributed starting first thing in the morning.
When the work is finally done, they make the difficult but exhilarating journey home mounted together on Pablo’s bicycle. It takes constant effort to keep their balance as they careen down the steep slope of the Rue de Belleville, enjoying the air whipping their faces and ringing the bell like hooligans, as if transported back to their childhood on the Castilian Plateau. Frenzied and trailing his tongue like a streamer, Kropotkin chases them down the hill, but cannot catch up until Faubourg du Temple, where the grade is less steep. Arriving at Place de la République, the two friends dismount the bicycle and walk the rest of the way to Pablo’s cramped hovel. There, the makeshift host takes a mat from beneath his rickety bed and unrolls it, then puts an old blanket on top.
“I don’t know if I can handle such luxury,” says the visitor.
“Sorry I can’t offer you the comforts of your palace on Buttes-Chaumont,” his host responds, and they both have a good laugh. Humor is the balm of poverty.
They spend the night chatting and remembering stories from the old days. From time to time they hear Kropotkin whining in his dreams outside the door, where they have left him to sleep on the Bienvenue mat. When they finally take note of the time, dawn is coming on. Only then do they fall asleep. And, since Pablo does not use an alarm clock, it’s a miracle when he opens his eyes two hours later, just in time to go to the station to catch the train, leaving Robinsón to enjoy his bed for a few days.
Pablo works from Monday to Thursday in Marly-les-Valenciennes, a tiny village north of Paris, near the Belgian border, where he takes care of the country house of the Beaumont family, to make sure it is in order when they come for the weekends. He watches the house, cares for the garden and the pond, keeps the buildings clean, makes occasional repairs, and feeds the two boxer dogs that Madame Beaumont spoils in a manner unconscionable to Pablo’s working-class mind, a situation that once prompted him, in a sudden act of class justice, to let the boxers starve for a day, giving their food to the local strays. To tell the truth, the job is a sinecure: scant responsibilities, good pay, and board included, in a little house next to the pond. For this reason, Pablo goes up every week, and plans to keep going up until he finds something better to complement the miserable salary he receives from old Faure.
He takes the train from the Gare du Nord, passes through Amiens, and arrives in Lille, where the ticket collector wakes him from a deep sleep; from there he still needs to take another train to Valenciennes and then walk for twenty minutes to the Beaumont estate. The days in the country pass without any major disruptions, and Pablo takes advantage of the free time to read and go for walks, or to go down to the village for a glass or two of wine. Sometimes he surprises himself by smiling for no reason, which he attributes to the happy arrival of Robinsón in Paris; however, at other times he finds himself furrowing his brow, and this too he ends up blaming on his childhood friend, or, more precisely, on the conversation he had with him at the Point du Jour on Sunday afternoon. The drums of action have started pounding again, and he does not know whether to join the orchestra or run away before it’s too late.
When he arrives back in Paris on Friday at noon, he goes directly to the print shop. There he finds Monsieur Faure, redder and angrier than ever, who greets Pablo with loud shouting as usual:
“Goddammit! I’ve been waiting for you all morning! Where the hell have you been?”
“But Monsieur Faure, I’m scheduled to start at two in the afternoon, and it’s not even one yet …”
The Savage’s eyes widen until they are nearly bursting from their sockets, and he starts to puff up like a balloon, going from pink to red and then purple in a matter of seconds. Finally, he lets out a grunt and starts deflating, little by little.
“It’s fine,” he says, smoothing down his mustache tips, which are already greasy from so much handling, “let’s go to the Point du Jour, I’ll buy you a drink and we can talk.”
There, he tells him about the print shop’s new orders: the pamphlet against the Spanish dictatorship, the trilingual review, and the anarchist encyclopedia. Pablo pretends not to know anything about the matter and listens attentively, interjecting a question or suggestion every now and again.
“Listen well, Martín. The pamphlet needs to be published immediately, and I don’t want to hear any excuses about the Minerva, because it’s been fixed. So you better plan to have it ready for Monday—it’s only eight pages. If not then, have it done by the time I arrive next Friday.”
The review and the encyclopedia are not as urgent, he explains; they are medium- and long-term projects, so they will not mean too much extra work for Pablo. Just the same, the old anarchist asks him if he would be available to work on Friday mornings as well.
“But, Monsieur Faure, the print shop is packed to the gills on Friday mornings.”
“Fine, you’re right. What about Mondays?”
“I don’t know, I’d have to check. Look, maybe it’s better if we leave things as they are for the time being, and we’ll see later. Julián is making great progress, maybe between the two of us we can take care of all of it. Of course, the ideal would be to get new machines; if we could invest in a Roto-Calco, which can print almost two thousand sheets an hour—”
“Over my dead body!” shouts Sébastien Faure, his anger returning. “Have you still not understood that this is a printing house, not a sausage factory like you have in your country? Watch your step, Martín. Don’t piss me off.”
And he leaves the bar without paying for the drinks.
WHEN THE PRINT SHOP CLOSES THAT night, Robinsón appears, walking Pablo’s trusty, rusty Clément Luxe, with a smile from ear to ear and his bowler jauntier than usual. That’s the great thing about Robinsón: he never loses his smile for any reason. It is obvious that, whatever happens, he is always in communion with nature.
“While you were gone I took the liberty of using your velocipede,” says the vegetarian by way of greeting, chewing the last word with a certain smugness.
“Good for you,” Pablo replies, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like to walk the rest of the way home.”
“But of course.”
Kropotkin wags his tail in gratitude, clearly in harmony with his master’s spirit. During the walk, as Robinsón pushes the bicycle, he tells