the end of the road, swearing in blind fury at the treachery of the snow, the inconvenience of the ice beneath it, at the whole world which seemed to conspire against him as he struggled to keep his feet. One thought comforted him. Someone was going to suffer. That much was certain. About thirty-six of them to be precise.
By the time he reached the Puerta del Sol, sweating with exertion and fury, a few workmen were clearing paths along the pavements. Guzmán glared at them with casual and unfocused hatred as he grabbed a lamp post to steady himself. After ten minutes he was still only halfway to the comisaría . When he saw the Café Ojalá, he felt justified in stopping off to regain his strength, ordering a coffee with milk and two stale cakes. At this hour the café’s usual limited choice was even more limited. Guzmán asked for something hot but the owner threw up his hands and launched into a violent denunciation of the black market and the crooked party officials who facilitated it. Hot food was off the menu, Guzmán realised.
‘Franco promised us once we’d beaten the Reds we would have bread and justice,’ the man said, wiping a glass with a bar towel. ‘Well, the Reds saw his justice, but where’s the bread for those of us who fought for him?’
With whichever general handles the distribution of grain, probably , Guzmán thought. It was hard to argue with the man, and not only because it was four in the morning. More and more people were complaining about the lack of food. Guzmán heard it on the streets and in the bars and cafés where he met his informants or spied on his victims. It wasn’t as if the hardship affected only those who had been on the Republican side: even members of the Falange were complaining their rations were inadequate, eroded by corrupt officials and administrators. Franco should do something , Guzmán thought. There’s a difference between taking a cut and bleeding the country dry .
‘Want to know what I think?’ the man said, leaning across the bar, his rancid breath hanging in the frozen air.
‘Not really.’ Guzmán finished his coffee.
‘Franco doesn’t know the half of it,’ the man continued, ignoring Guzmán’s indifference. ‘He has so much to do he has to depend on others, on the military and the Party members. They do what they want and take what they can. And what they do and what they tell him are different things. And they get away with it by using the guardia civil and the policía when things get bad.’
Guzmán nodded and paid the bill. Normally he would have baulked at paying but the man’s complaint had been true enough. Guzmán thought he deserved a break for that – and for being open at this hour.
‘Careful out there,’ the man called as Guzmán stood up and made his way to the door, ‘it’s going to be a hell of a day.’
Guzmán paused in the doorway, noticing it was only marginally colder outside than in. ‘I think you’re right. For some people anyway.’
‘Let’s hope for once it’s those who deserve it.’ The man smiled, revealing a row of ragged teeth.
‘I think today you can be sure of it.’ Guzmán closed the door and stepped out into the silent blurred snowscape of the street.
*
The deep snow didn’t improve Guzmán’s temper as he trudged doggedly towards the comisaría . The hobnails in his boots gave him some purchase but he still slipped and stumbled at times, glad there was no one to witness his discomfort. The comisaría was ablaze with light when he finally arrived. Six trucks were parked outside, guarded by several guardia civiles wrapped in their capes, tricorne hats pulled well down. One asked Guzmán for his papers, stepping back and saluting when Guzmán thrust his identity card into the man’s face.
‘ A sus ordenes, mi Comandante .’
Guzmán snatched back his papers and clattered into the entrance hall, stamping his feet to get rid of the cloying snow. It was a small, domestic gesture and it
By the time he reached the Puerta del Sol, sweating with exertion and fury, a few workmen were clearing paths along the pavements. Guzmán glared at them with casual and unfocused hatred as he grabbed a lamp post to steady himself. After ten minutes he was still only halfway to the comisaría . When he saw the Café Ojalá, he felt justified in stopping off to regain his strength, ordering a coffee with milk and two stale cakes. At this hour the café’s usual limited choice was even more limited. Guzmán asked for something hot but the owner threw up his hands and launched into a violent denunciation of the black market and the crooked party officials who facilitated it. Hot food was off the menu, Guzmán realised.
‘Franco promised us once we’d beaten the Reds we would have bread and justice,’ the man said, wiping a glass with a bar towel. ‘Well, the Reds saw his justice, but where’s the bread for those of us who fought for him?’
With whichever general handles the distribution of grain, probably , Guzmán thought. It was hard to argue with the man, and not only because it was four in the morning. More and more people were complaining about the lack of food. Guzmán heard it on the streets and in the bars and cafés where he met his informants or spied on his victims. It wasn’t as if the hardship affected only those who had been on the Republican side: even members of the Falange were complaining their rations were inadequate, eroded by corrupt officials and administrators. Franco should do something , Guzmán thought. There’s a difference between taking a cut and bleeding the country dry .
‘Want to know what I think?’ the man said, leaning across the bar, his rancid breath hanging in the frozen air.
‘Not really.’ Guzmán finished his coffee.
‘Franco doesn’t know the half of it,’ the man continued, ignoring Guzmán’s indifference. ‘He has so much to do he has to depend on others, on the military and the Party members. They do what they want and take what they can. And what they do and what they tell him are different things. And they get away with it by using the guardia civil and the policía when things get bad.’
Guzmán nodded and paid the bill. Normally he would have baulked at paying but the man’s complaint had been true enough. Guzmán thought he deserved a break for that – and for being open at this hour.
‘Careful out there,’ the man called as Guzmán stood up and made his way to the door, ‘it’s going to be a hell of a day.’
Guzmán paused in the doorway, noticing it was only marginally colder outside than in. ‘I think you’re right. For some people anyway.’
‘Let’s hope for once it’s those who deserve it.’ The man smiled, revealing a row of ragged teeth.
‘I think today you can be sure of it.’ Guzmán closed the door and stepped out into the silent blurred snowscape of the street.
*
The deep snow didn’t improve Guzmán’s temper as he trudged doggedly towards the comisaría . The hobnails in his boots gave him some purchase but he still slipped and stumbled at times, glad there was no one to witness his discomfort. The comisaría was ablaze with light when he finally arrived. Six trucks were parked outside, guarded by several guardia civiles wrapped in their capes, tricorne hats pulled well down. One asked Guzmán for his papers, stepping back and saluting when Guzmán thrust his identity card into the man’s face.
‘ A sus ordenes, mi Comandante .’
Guzmán snatched back his papers and clattered into the entrance hall, stamping his feet to get rid of the cloying snow. It was a small, domestic gesture and it
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