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