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Authors: Alberto Méndez
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the other prisoners?’
‘Because he was very good at doing conjuring tricks.’
‘Colonel sir!’ boomed Rioboo.
Colonel sir. But at that precise moment the colonel’s eyes were searching out somebody else at the far side of the room, and the look on his face was as helpless as that of an abandoned puppy. He raised his eyebrows to no one in particular, then again turned his troubled gaze on Juan Senra.
‘Why was he in jail?’
Juan had known the moment of truth would arrive, and that he would have to answer precisely this question. He felt very weak. It was hard to think straight and ignore his aching body. He knew Miguel Eymar had been arrested for crimes that had nothing to do with the war.
The charges against Eymar were for profiteering from the supply of contaminated medicines that had caused several deaths, armed robbery from military food stores, illegal trafficking of petrol and fuel, and other offences made possible by the chaos of war in a city like Madrid, where all the attention was focused on its defences.
Youngsters were dying in the trenches. Shells were raining down on the city suburbs, while the fear of losing the war and the need to hide that fear were the chief concern of so-called authority.
Miguel Eymar had also committed murder.
‘Because he belonged to the fifth column,’ lied Juan Senra. ‘Colonel sir.’
‘Because he was a hero, you bastard, because he was a hero!’ shrieked Rioboo, hoping to win the tribunal president’s nod of approval. Juan was taken aback at the way the lieutenant’s face had changed. When he was shouting at him, his eyes became bloodshot, but then in a matter of seconds, as he looked askance at Colonel Eymar seeking his approval, his anger dissolved into a look of unctuous submission. But on this occasion, a slight, almost pontifical movement of the hand protruding from its sleeve cut short his subordinate’s effusive gesture. At the same time, the colonel’s eyes were once more seeking someone else’s face at the far end of the room, and stayed gazing there for some time. The colonel’s nostrils palpitated as he breathed in and out. Juan could see that the hairs sticking out of them were coated in a thick, sticky substance. Could he be crying?
‘And is that why you killed him?’ the colonel asked at length. As if speaking to no one in particular, Juan Senra said he had only been amember of the prison nursing corps. He had not arrested Miguel Eymar, had not judged him, and above all had nothing to do with his death, colonel sir.
‘I did talk to him quite often though,’ he added.
This was not true. Juan had a clear memory of who Miguel Eymar was because it was one of those cases that not even the horrors of war could erase. He had murdered a shepherd in the village of Fuencarral in order to steal his lambs and sell them on the black market. But the shepherd’s son, who was little more than a boy, had jabbed his pitchfork into Eymar’s stomach, and almost killed him. Juan Senra had attended him after he had been operated on with all the skill that war gives people who do not want to lose any soldiers. While he was recovering, Miguel Eymar offered to talk if it would save his life. He told them all he knew about the criminal gangs in Madrid, including the one he led, and also gave them information that allowed them to arrest many fifth-columnists operating inside the besieged city. After that, they shot him anyway.
‘What did you talk about?’ The question came from the old lady in the threadbare astrakhan coat at the back of the room. Juan turned and saw her approaching him slowly, staring straight at him. She was clutching the bag as if it were a defenceless object she had to protect.
‘For heaven’s sake, Violeta!’ the colonel pleaded. But she insisted.
‘What did you talk about?’
Juan Senra turned towards the president of the tribunal for permission to speak, and waited for a gesture authorising him to do so. The colonel waved his
‘Because he was very good at doing conjuring tricks.’
‘Colonel sir!’ boomed Rioboo.
Colonel sir. But at that precise moment the colonel’s eyes were searching out somebody else at the far side of the room, and the look on his face was as helpless as that of an abandoned puppy. He raised his eyebrows to no one in particular, then again turned his troubled gaze on Juan Senra.
‘Why was he in jail?’
Juan had known the moment of truth would arrive, and that he would have to answer precisely this question. He felt very weak. It was hard to think straight and ignore his aching body. He knew Miguel Eymar had been arrested for crimes that had nothing to do with the war.
The charges against Eymar were for profiteering from the supply of contaminated medicines that had caused several deaths, armed robbery from military food stores, illegal trafficking of petrol and fuel, and other offences made possible by the chaos of war in a city like Madrid, where all the attention was focused on its defences.
Youngsters were dying in the trenches. Shells were raining down on the city suburbs, while the fear of losing the war and the need to hide that fear were the chief concern of so-called authority.
Miguel Eymar had also committed murder.
‘Because he belonged to the fifth column,’ lied Juan Senra. ‘Colonel sir.’
‘Because he was a hero, you bastard, because he was a hero!’ shrieked Rioboo, hoping to win the tribunal president’s nod of approval. Juan was taken aback at the way the lieutenant’s face had changed. When he was shouting at him, his eyes became bloodshot, but then in a matter of seconds, as he looked askance at Colonel Eymar seeking his approval, his anger dissolved into a look of unctuous submission. But on this occasion, a slight, almost pontifical movement of the hand protruding from its sleeve cut short his subordinate’s effusive gesture. At the same time, the colonel’s eyes were once more seeking someone else’s face at the far end of the room, and stayed gazing there for some time. The colonel’s nostrils palpitated as he breathed in and out. Juan could see that the hairs sticking out of them were coated in a thick, sticky substance. Could he be crying?
‘And is that why you killed him?’ the colonel asked at length. As if speaking to no one in particular, Juan Senra said he had only been amember of the prison nursing corps. He had not arrested Miguel Eymar, had not judged him, and above all had nothing to do with his death, colonel sir.
‘I did talk to him quite often though,’ he added.
This was not true. Juan had a clear memory of who Miguel Eymar was because it was one of those cases that not even the horrors of war could erase. He had murdered a shepherd in the village of Fuencarral in order to steal his lambs and sell them on the black market. But the shepherd’s son, who was little more than a boy, had jabbed his pitchfork into Eymar’s stomach, and almost killed him. Juan Senra had attended him after he had been operated on with all the skill that war gives people who do not want to lose any soldiers. While he was recovering, Miguel Eymar offered to talk if it would save his life. He told them all he knew about the criminal gangs in Madrid, including the one he led, and also gave them information that allowed them to arrest many fifth-columnists operating inside the besieged city. After that, they shot him anyway.
‘What did you talk about?’ The question came from the old lady in the threadbare astrakhan coat at the back of the room. Juan turned and saw her approaching him slowly, staring straight at him. She was clutching the bag as if it were a defenceless object she had to protect.
‘For heaven’s sake, Violeta!’ the colonel pleaded. But she insisted.
‘What did you talk about?’
Juan Senra turned towards the president of the tribunal for permission to speak, and waited for a gesture authorising him to do so. The colonel waved his
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