should be doing something prefer to close their eyes and look the other way. What we need in Spain are more Strogoffs, you get me? People who are capable of weeping for their nation and saving the whole country’s sight, despite the hot irons that the bastards want to shove in their eyes. We have to wake people up, Carretero, get ’em jumping. And I’m planning to do it, no matter what. I’ll hold the necessary meetings, I’ll write articles in the newspapers, I’ll distribute my pamphlet myself, if I have to …”
“And you haven’t thought about taking up arms?” the young writer interrupts.
Blasco pales a bit, and then bursts out in a great peal of laughter, which silences everyone around him. Then, becoming suddenly serious, he replies:
“Look, sir, you’re making a big mistake if you think I’m some kind of Capitán Araña, who’s going to embark a crew and then stay on the land. No, no, my dear friend. No, I’ll be on the front lines, you hear me? I’ll be the first to take a bullet in the chest!” Raising his voice, he concludes emphatically: “I’ve lived enough, and I don’t care if I die. I’m not afraid of them! I’m not afraid to fight, and I’m not afraid of death!”
A flurry of applause accompanies his closing words. Carretero excuses himself and goes to dine upstairs with a more cautious group of Spaniards, having decided to write a biting little exposé to take Blasco down a notch, which he will end up titling, “The Novelist Who Sold His Country Out.” But let’s leave Blasco, the Caballero Audaz, and their dialectical battles for now. Let’s go down these two flights of stairs, which lead, at the bottom and to the left, to the private room, where we’ve just heard the conversation between Pablo and Durruti and company. Because let’s not forget that La Rotonde is not just a haven for politicians and intellectuals who fight their revolution using letters to the editor and rhetorical devices, but also for true men of action, erudite anarchists who cherish more than anything the elegant lines of a Browning semiautomatic, the impossible beauty of a harmonica pistol, or the understated grace of a cachorrillo, the pocket pistol Larra used to commit suicide. So, while Unamuno and his ilk wage their paper war, the next table is usually talking about incursions, attacks, offensives, and putsches. But when things get serious, or there’s concern that a snitch or informant is in their midst, they go downstairs to meet in the private room at the bottom left.
“Fine, okay, I’ll do it,” Pablo finally gives in, although he’s still not very sure that a revolutionary incursion is the best available option. “When do you need it?”
“The date of the expedition hasn’t been finalized yet, it doesn’t depend so much on us but on the comrades in the interior, but the broadsides can be printed now. Well, as soon as we get the paper, of course.”
“And the money,” Massoni interjects, “Since, between Vivancos and Teixidó, we’ve spent everything.”
The accused try to protest, but Durruti nips the conversation in the bud:
“Please, friends, we’ve come here to make plans. Let’s leave the dirty laundry for some other time. Pablo, thank you for your cooperation, doubtless you will be a great help. I don’t need to tell you that this matter calls for the utmost discretion. We will keep in touch with you through Robinsón, if you like.”
And so, after shaking hands with everyone present and casting a dire look at Robinsón, Pablo makes his exit from La Rotonde. Meanwhile, in Don Miguel’s salon, someone’s just told a joke and the room erupts in strenuous laughter.
Safe to say, Pablo has now been inducted into the Orchestra of the Revolution.
IV
(1899)
“MY NAME’S ROBERTO OLAYA. BUT YOU can call me Robinsón,” said the boy, lifting his eyes from a book with all its pages cut.
Pablo and his father had arrived ten days beforehand in Béjar, one of the larger villages of the province of Salamanca. About fifty miles south of the provincial capital and surrounded by mountains, the village was often cut off from the rest of the world by deep winter snows, as was the case at the time of the Martíns’ visit.
“My name is Pablo Martín. But you can call me Pablo.”
The two boys looked at each other in silence. Robinsón was slightly younger, but he looked older.
“What’s that book you’re reading?” the boy from Baracaldo asked.
“Robinson Crusoe,” replied the boy from Béjar.
“Will you let me read it?”
“You can have it when I’m done with it. But don’t let my papa catch you.”
The boy’s father was the owner of the inn where the inspector and his son had taken a room, located at the uphill end of Calle Flamencos, next to the church of San Juan Bautista. This man had been a syndicalist in his youth, but an accident at work in the textile factory had left him without his left hand, and he had had to open the inn to make a living. He had a reputation in the village as an atheist and freethinker, and those really in the know whispered that he was a Marxist, a word that tended to put people ill at ease.
“Why can’t I let your papa see me?” Pablo asked.
“Because he doesn’t like this book. He says it defends slavery. But I’ve already read it three times!”
“Are you almost done with it?”
“Yeah, almost,” said the innkeeper’s son, showing Pablo the pages he had left to read.
Béjar was the last village that Julián Martín had to inspect before returning to Baracaldo to spend Christmas with his family. The municipality had eight primary schools (four for boys and four for girls) and the provincial inspector was planning to visit all of them before going home for vacation, leaving the schools in nearby towns such as La Calzada, Ledrada, and Candelario for the next trip. However, he did not plan for the tremendous snow that would fall just before his departure, leaving them cut off from the rest of the world, a snow that would take many days to melt and decades to fade from the memory of the people of Béjar.
“In any case,” said the boy called Robinsón, “with this snow I don’t think you’ll be able to leave the village until after Christmas, so you’ll have plenty of time to read the whole book.”
Julián sent a telegram to María to tell her about the situation, with the hope that he would soon be able to take Lucero across the mountain pass of Vallejera on the way to Salamanca. But the next day was already Christmas Eve, and it would be very difficult for them to reach Baracaldo in time for Christmas treats. The other guests at the inn were all in the same situation, so they decided to celebrate Christ’s birth together, telling themselves that sometimes it is better to be in bad company than alone, despite what the proverb says. When the word got around that there was a provincial inspector staying at the inn, he was appointed master of ceremonies, and Julián had no choice but to fulfill his duty and officiate the evening’s modest festivities. And it was that very night, a few hours before dinner, that the inspector’s son found the innkeeper’s son in the attic reading a book called Robinson Crusoe.
“Why are you hiding up here?” asked Pablo, who had arrived in the attic by following a pregnant cat strolling through the inn like she owned the place.
“This is my temporary lair. With all the snow I can’t get to my hideout,” Robinsón replied, mimicking the language of an adventure novel.
“And where is your hideout?”
“I can’t tell you that. At least, not right now.”
The two boys observed each other attentively in the dim light of the tallow lamp illuminating the attic space, a skeletal room filled with beams and rafters that to Pablo looked like the hold of an old pirate ship. Robinsón was sitting on an enormous, worn-out trunk, with a plaid blanket covering him from the waist down and the pregnant cat curled up on his lap.
“And when will you be able to tell