this was misleading, because his blue eyes stared straight into the face of whoever he was talking to, and turned even his most banal remarks into hard-hitting truths. At the same time, there was something friendly and gentle about the language he used, peppered as it was with idiomatic expressions and blasphemous euphemisms.
He took part in the war as if he were playing a game, just to stop the opposition winning. He had no ideals, and never thought of why he was taking the stand he had. And, just as in a game, he kept to the rules right to the end, acting as a sniper when Franco’s troops entered Madrid and swept all resistance aside. He harassed the enemy from rooftops so successfully that the victors were held in check until the third day of the glorious Victory. When he was finally caught, it was not for his sharp-shooting, but because he had broken the curfew imposed by the new authorities, to see his girlfriend. She was waiting for him in a dark doorway in the Salamanca neighbourhood where they had installed their passionate nuptial chamber for frantic, silent couplings.
Even so, he had been happy because for those three days of freedom he had been the one to set the rules, the one who decided who was good and who was bad, he was the one who could judge and acquit, condemn and execute, as part of an overall strategy he believed others had established.
It was only now he was in jail that Eugenio realised all this was called war, and that he, despite his ability to slide down roofs, to jump from building to building, and despite his satisfaction each time he shot an opponent, now had to learn the meaning of defeat. What hurt him most was the fact that his girlfriend was pregnant. ‘She’s such a silly goose, she probably thinks I’ve gone off with someone else…’ Eugenio concluded nostalgically.
Juan realised that in other circumstances he would have felt great affection for the boy. Now it was enough to have him for company. It was a gentle, primitive feeling among all the sticky, slimy emotions of collective despair. It was as though Eugenio had lost at football: he could not believe the other team were his enemies. He had lost on this occasion, but he was bound to win the return match. It was all a game of chance, with no thought of revenge or guilt. ‘I’m not a bad loser like that lot.’
The following day, Juan was first on the list. It was so difficult to get hold of a pencil and paper that he had not been able to say goodbye to his brother. This time, death seemed to him to be in too much of a hurry.
He formed a line with those whose names had been called. They were led out into the yard and put in a prison van to take them to Colonel Eymar’s tribunal. All the others were tried before him, and every one of them was condemned to death. When it was his turn, Juan Senra walked meekly into the courtroom. How can you kill a dead man? This thought suddenly gave him a feeling of pride, even though he had never been more defeated.
When he entered the room, he could see that everything was exactly as before: Colonel Eymar sat up on the dais, flanked by Captain Martínez and Second Lieutenant Rioboo. The albino clerk was sitting opposite them at his desk, still colouring in flags. But by the door there was a prematurely aged woman seated on a battered Thonet chair. She was wearing a threadbare astrakhan coat, clasped a large handbag on her lap, and followed his progress across the room with her stern gaze. Juan responded to the clerk’s sharp command by giving his name, rank and number. He stood facing the platform, trying as far as possible to avoid looking as if he were standing to attention. The colonel cut short the reading of the charges against him, and after a brief silence, asked:
‘So you met Miguel Eymar in Porlier jail…’ He made as though to search for something among his papers while waiting for the affirmativeanswer, colonel sir. ‘And why do you remember him in particular among all
He took part in the war as if he were playing a game, just to stop the opposition winning. He had no ideals, and never thought of why he was taking the stand he had. And, just as in a game, he kept to the rules right to the end, acting as a sniper when Franco’s troops entered Madrid and swept all resistance aside. He harassed the enemy from rooftops so successfully that the victors were held in check until the third day of the glorious Victory. When he was finally caught, it was not for his sharp-shooting, but because he had broken the curfew imposed by the new authorities, to see his girlfriend. She was waiting for him in a dark doorway in the Salamanca neighbourhood where they had installed their passionate nuptial chamber for frantic, silent couplings.
Even so, he had been happy because for those three days of freedom he had been the one to set the rules, the one who decided who was good and who was bad, he was the one who could judge and acquit, condemn and execute, as part of an overall strategy he believed others had established.
It was only now he was in jail that Eugenio realised all this was called war, and that he, despite his ability to slide down roofs, to jump from building to building, and despite his satisfaction each time he shot an opponent, now had to learn the meaning of defeat. What hurt him most was the fact that his girlfriend was pregnant. ‘She’s such a silly goose, she probably thinks I’ve gone off with someone else…’ Eugenio concluded nostalgically.
Juan realised that in other circumstances he would have felt great affection for the boy. Now it was enough to have him for company. It was a gentle, primitive feeling among all the sticky, slimy emotions of collective despair. It was as though Eugenio had lost at football: he could not believe the other team were his enemies. He had lost on this occasion, but he was bound to win the return match. It was all a game of chance, with no thought of revenge or guilt. ‘I’m not a bad loser like that lot.’
The following day, Juan was first on the list. It was so difficult to get hold of a pencil and paper that he had not been able to say goodbye to his brother. This time, death seemed to him to be in too much of a hurry.
He formed a line with those whose names had been called. They were led out into the yard and put in a prison van to take them to Colonel Eymar’s tribunal. All the others were tried before him, and every one of them was condemned to death. When it was his turn, Juan Senra walked meekly into the courtroom. How can you kill a dead man? This thought suddenly gave him a feeling of pride, even though he had never been more defeated.
When he entered the room, he could see that everything was exactly as before: Colonel Eymar sat up on the dais, flanked by Captain Martínez and Second Lieutenant Rioboo. The albino clerk was sitting opposite them at his desk, still colouring in flags. But by the door there was a prematurely aged woman seated on a battered Thonet chair. She was wearing a threadbare astrakhan coat, clasped a large handbag on her lap, and followed his progress across the room with her stern gaze. Juan responded to the clerk’s sharp command by giving his name, rank and number. He stood facing the platform, trying as far as possible to avoid looking as if he were standing to attention. The colonel cut short the reading of the charges against him, and after a brief silence, asked:
‘So you met Miguel Eymar in Porlier jail…’ He made as though to search for something among his papers while waiting for the affirmativeanswer, colonel sir. ‘And why do you remember him in particular among all
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