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