asking El Galeno to engage a mission of “the most absolute transcendence”: obtaining weapons, in great quantity and at low cost, because the medical student-cum-barber has good contacts among the workers of the region employed in the recovery of war materiel, who have a habit of trafficking their spoils even though the regulations require all weapons to be turned over to military engineers for destruction. Further on, the words again complain of the movement’s financial problems, and give way to numbers quoting the prices Rodríguez can offer the traffickers: a maximum of thirty francs per rifle and fifty for each case of “bombillas,” revolutionary slang for grenades; no point buying “pieces,” as there is a surplus of pistols at this time. The last thing El Galeno will read will be a few curt words of closure and thanks, and advice to destroy the letter as soon as he’s done reading it.
Finally, the imposing cathedral of Amiens appears in the distance, announcing that the train is drawing close to the city. Pablo has not taken off his coat, and sweat is starting to run down his back. He is suddenly seized by the apprehension that he is attracting too much attention by keeping his coat on. He looks around and it seems that everyone is watching him, silently appraising his behavior. A little old woman in front of him, nose and cheeks covered with warts, makes a face that says you’ll see when you get off, you’ll catch your death of cold. Fortunately, the train starts to brake as it arrives at the Amiens station, slowing with light jerks. Pablo stands up, lowers the window and pokes his head out; when the train stops, a few travelers get off. Then he sees the man with the medical bag helping a pregnant woman with her luggage. His heart racing, Pablo leaves his position at the window and makes his way to the back of the car, toward the door the man has just entered. In the aisle, he subtly takes the letter from his inside coat pocket and nearly crashes into the pregnant woman; one second later he is next to the supposed doctor, whose medical bag is slightly open. Passing by his side, Pablo drops the letter in and continues on his way. No eye contact. Returning to his seat, Pablo still has time to catch a glimpse of the man with the medical bag leaving the station in the company of another man. Before he sits down again, he finally removes his coat, and the wart-faced woman shakes her head as if to say: it’s about time, son, it’s about time.
V
(1899–1900)
ROBERTO OLAYA WAS NOT MISTAKEN. AS he had predicted, the inspector and his son were unable to leave Béjar for the entire Christmas holiday. He was wrong, however, about one thing: Pablo did not have time to read Robinson Crusoe during the stay. In fact, he only got through the first few pages, so preoccupied was he with the thrilling discovery of true friendship and true love. The port at Vallejera did not reopen until the new year, practically the end of the vacation—a fateful vacation in the life of Pablo Martín Sánchez.
That Christmas Eve of 1899, after the midnight mass—known in Spain as la misa de gallo, the “rooster mass”—the two boys left their hiding place behind the balustrade and went to find the rest of the crowd from the inn.
“Where did you run off to?” Julián asked his son.
Pablo gave no answer. His eyes were shining with a glow Julián had only seen once before: the day, now long past, when he found him shivering at Plaza de Santo Domingo in Madrid. The four actors, the livestock dealer, and the newlyweds decided to prolong the night a bit, so the group returning to the inn was reduced to Julián, Pablo, Doña Leonor, Robinsón, and the traveling salesman, who spent the whole walk trying to convince them of the benefits of Palleschy Ointment, a surefire cure for chilblains. When they had nearly arrived back at the inn, Robinsón whispered in Pablo’s ear:
“Look, see that house down the side street? That’s the Gómez house. That window up there is Angela’s room.”
Pablo looked up.
“Of course,” Robinsón added casually, “Our attic skylight is just across from her window.”
Pablo had a hard time falling asleep that night. He tossed and turned in bed, unable to slow his mind down. At his side, Julián snored in deep slumber, his head topped with a nightcap with a tassel at its tip. The bell of a nearby church, probably San Juan Bautista, marked the passage of the hours with its metallic clang. Two bells, three bells, four bells … and when the church bell marked five, Pablo was still awake, still obsessing. It was as though Angela’s eyes were staring at him from the interstices of sleep, enormous and unsettling. He finally got out of bed and exited the room on tiptoe, without bothering to put on a pair of slippers. He ascended the attic stairs and pushed on the door, which squeaked in protest at being forced into action at such an ungodly hour. He walked toward the faint glow of the skylight and sat in a chair that was directly below it, as though someone had placed it there intentionally. He opened the window and stuck his head out, receiving a gust of icy wind and a light dusting of snowflakes that quickly melted on his face. The Gómez house was just across the way, and he easily identified Angela’s bedroom, as Robinsón had indicated. Her window was no more than four yards away, and he could see the light coming from behind the closed curtains. Maybe she can’t sleep either, thought Pablo. Suddenly, as if in response to his thoughts, a voice spoke behind him:
“She always sleeps with a light on.”
Pablo jumped in his seat, tipping it over and falling to the floor with a clamor.
“Sorry!” said Robinsón, unable to contain his laughter. “I didn’t think you’d come back up here.”
“I almost died!” Pablo stuttered.
“From surprise or from falling?” Robinsón asked, sarcastically.
“From both, I think.”
And they both smiled in the darkness.
“You like Angela, don’t you?” Robinsón asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Pablo, blushing. “I guess so.”
“Well then we better be careful from now on.”
“Why?”
But Robinsón was already dragging the trunk that had given them cover the night before and placing it under the skylight.
“Here, hop aboard,” he said, without answering his friend’s question. From up on his watchtower, he repeated, “She always sleeps with a light on.”
“You said that. Why?”
“Because she’s afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“The dark, I think.”
“How strange.”
“You won’t believe it, but it happens to me too sometimes. But you know what my papa says?”
“No, what does he say?”
“That only brave people can be afraid. People who don’t feel fear can’t be brave, because brave people are the ones who know how to overcome their fear.”
The two boys sat in silence, staring at Angela’s glowing window and trying to understand the deep meaning of these words, until the cold made their teeth chatter.
“Come on, let’s go back to sleep, the sun’s coming up,” Robinsón yawned. “And if I was you, I’d forget about Angela, unless you want her cousin to make mincemeat out of you.”
But there are times in life when there’s nothing to do but jump into the meat grinder and see what happens.
PABLO DID NOT SEE THE GIRL in the blue dress again over the next few days, despite spending long hours watching her window from the inn’s attic. Robinsón accompanied him, replacing him when his legs fell asleep or when he had to go to the toilet. But Angela did not appear to want to be seen behind her curtain. They also did not see her in the street, or at the Nativity Mass, or at the New Year’s party at the Casino Obrero. They did, however, see her father, always dressed in the colonial style, with his long sideburns that went all the way down to disappear under his shirt collar. They also saw her mother, and two of her older sisters, and even her cousin Rodrigo Martín, who