Pablo was already running toward the river. After crossing the wooden bridge, he arrived at the road to Candelario and went running back to the inn, where he went directly up to the attic and hid in the trunk—not knowing that he was imitating a common vampire behavior. Enclosed in there, he could finally hear his heart, pounding with his distress. But when he searched for it with his hand, he discovered that it wasn’t beating on the left side of his chest, but on the right.
Pablo did not know then, nor would he ever know, but this surprising fact was due to a congenital abnormality that produces a lateral inversion of the internal organs, which years later would be named situs inversus, although it has been documented since at least the seventeenth century, with the death of an old soldier in the army of Louis XIV; upon opening his chest the doctors found his heart on the wrong side. This abnormality has a high correlation with another very rare condition: anosmia.
– 6 –
Miguel García Vivancos learned the mechanic’s trade at the age of 13, before emigrating to Barcelona in 1909, where the death of his father left him orphaned. He was a founding member of the group Los Solidarios, started in 1922 along with Buenaventura Durruti, Francisco Ascaso, and Juan García Oliver, among others. After the attack in August 1923 on the Bank of Spain in Gijón, he was arrested and incarcerated for three months, but he managed to foil the police investigations and was set free. He then departed for Paris with several members of the group and was given the task of procuring weapons for the rebellion against the dictatorship of Primo de Rivera. After having negotiated with a Belgian trafficker for the purchase of rifles and ammunition, he participated in the operation at Vera de Bidasoa on 7 November 1924.
International Dictionary of Anarchist Militants
AFTER A FEW RATHER QUIET DAYS in Marly, Pablo returns to Paris on Friday, October 24. As the train passes through Amiens, he peers through the window of the rear car to see if the man with the medical bag is in the station again. He does not see him, so he goes to the aisle to check the rear platform. Not a trace. He returns to his seat and waits to arrive in Paris, watching the landscape go by. A few drops fall, but the sun manages to climb through a crack in the wall of clouds, resulting in an unusually beautiful sight: a rainbow, glowing with the deceptive clarity of illusion. For a moment, Pablo believes he is in the fields of Castile, riding Lucero and clinging to his father’s belt. He closes his eyes and falls into a reverie for several minutes. When he opens them again, the sad spectacle of the shabby houses of the Parisian outskirts—known, with a certain disdain, as the banlieue—snap him out of his daydream and back into reality. Arriving with a little time to spare, he decides to stop by home before going to the print shop. When he enters, something catches his attention. The mattress is still on the floor, and there is a suitcase in the corner that was not there when he left for Marly. And on top of the table, a hollow gourd, the one Leandro the Argentine giant uses for his yerba maté. Only then does he discover a note on the bed cover. It is from Robinsón and reads: “Pablo, the police are looking for Leandro. Seems Dubois ratted him out. They searched his house and put out a warrant for his arrest. It’s best if he hides out here for a few days, don’t you think? In any case, the nut says that if they don’t want him here in France, he’ll come with me to participate in the revolution in Spain. I will see you soon and tell you when things have settled a bit. Robinsón.” Pablo lets out a sigh and tears the note into little pieces.
But the weekend will be calmer than expected. First, because Sébastien Faure is traveling in Switzerland, giving a series of talks trying to demonstrate the nonexistence of God. Second, because the Committee of Anarchist Relations has still not obtained the paper for the broadsides. And third, because Robinsón and Leandro are going on a trip, of which they inform Pablo that evening when they go to find him at La Fraternelle. That is, when Robinsón shows up with a giant man dressed in a black trench coat to his knees and a wide-brimmed hat that hides his face.
“You coming from a costume party or what? Pablo asks mockingly when he sees them appear at the door.
“Che, don’t you know that the cops are looking for me? The old man reported me.”
“Yeah, I know. But dressed like that you’ll attract even more attention. You’d have a better chance of going unnoticed dressed as a woman.”
But Leandro is in no mood for jokes, something’s not right with him. Exhausted, he flops onto a chair, which cannot sustain the burden and collapses like a house of cards.
Pablo and Robinsón try to contain their laughter as they help him to his feet.
“Look, Leandro, what you ought to do is hide out for a few days here in the hovel,” Pablo proposes as he gathers up the pieces of wood and tries to put the chair back together, “or, better yet, you should take a little visit to the country, you could come with me to Marly and hide out in the villa. What you cannot do is keep on wandering around Paris like this.”
“That’s what I said on the way here,” Robinsón interjects, “in fact, we were thinking about heading south together tomorrow. The Committee has asked me to go supervise the recruitment down there. Seems they don’t much trust the guy responsible for recruiting in Bordeaux, Bayonne, Biarritz, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, and the other towns and cities in the region.”
“I thought the ones they didn’t trust were you and your buddies from the Lyon syndicate. That’s a lot of distrust to make a revolution, don’t you think?”
“Well, situations like this one involve certain risks.”
“And what do you think, Leandro?” Pablo asks.
“About what?” asks the Argentine, a bit distracted.
“About traveling, about what’s going to happen?”
“It suits me just fine. That way I won’t have to keep wearing these clothes. Anyway, I’m sick of this damn city, it can go to hell.”
The impetus for Robinsón’s trip was a telegram that the Committee of Anarchist Relations received earlier this week, sent from Bordeaux, in which the comrades of the Syndicate of Spanish Expatriates stated that they would not be continuing the work of propaganda and recruitment they had been assigned: “Sorry, cant handle matter. Saint-Jean-de-Luz person taking over. Name Max Hernández. Sncrly Syndicate Spanish Expatriates.” The Group of Thirty was not at all pleased with this news. They met yesterday at the center on Rue Petit and made the decision to send someone to the region to supervise the work performed by this Max, who went by the sobriquet “El Señorito.” And it was Robinsón who drew the short straw.
“That’s enough talk,” said Robinsón. “Tomorrow we’re going to get some southern sun, it’s already frightfully cold here. That way we’ll give dear Pablo a little peace. Even he needs some privacy from time to time,” he adds with a wink.
But that will not be until tomorrow. Tonight, the three of them will be sharing the hovel. Or, to be more accurate, the four of them; it’s starting to be too cold on the landing for Kropotkin, poor fellow.
THE WEEKEND PASSES UNEVENTFULLY AND, AS if trying to contradict Robinsón, the weather is generous to the Parisians, offering them an unexpected warm spell for Saint Martin’s feast day. Everyone seems to agree that they have to take advantage of it, and they go out en masse, wearing expressions of confused joy and rare good humor. At the Jardin de Luxembourg, a few young women are even trying to sunbathe, emulating Coco Chanel, who introduced the fashion of tanning two years ago by visiting Cannes with a garish bronze look. But Pablo knows that all this is an illusion, the calm before the storm. Not only because news of torrential rain keeps coming from the north of the country, but also because he has a premonition that his life is about to take an unexpected turn.
On Monday morning, Pablo goes to the Gare du Nord to take the train toward Lille. The sky has already gone overcast, and before getting into the train he buys Le Quotidien from a newsboy, one of the many who have proliferated in Paris since the end of the Great War. The front page shows a photo of the English swimmer Zetta Hills, who is planning to swim across the English Channel, wearing a specially designed rubber suit. There is also a headline