Tell the Moon to Come Out Read online

  ‘It’s good?’

  They nodded.

  The door opened and the two domino players came in.

  ‘Off home?’ said Pepe.

  The men cast a glance at the two strangers seated at the table, said ‘Adiós’ to Pepe, and went out into the yard. A moment later horses’ hooves were heard clattering on the cobbles.

  ‘You have no horse to stable?’ asked Pepe.

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘None.’

  ‘You are walking?’

  They didn’t have time to answer before a bell rang in the lobby outside. Pepe left them to answer it. Isabel and Nick were immediately on the alert again. They laid down their spoons. But the person talking to Pepe appeared to be a traveller like themselves; he was asking for overnight accommodation.

  Pepe brought the man into the kitchen. He was small and dressed in dark-blue overalls with a cap pulled down low on his forehead. ‘This is Cristóbal, who is to be my guest tonight. He comes this way from time to time. And here we have María and Paco!’ Pepe presented them with a flourish.

  ‘Brother and sister?’ asked Cristóbal.

  ‘Don’t you think they look alike?’ said Pepe.

  Cristóbal joined them at the table and a bowl of soup was set in front of him. He asked if they were staying the night as well.

  ‘You have taken the very words from my mouth!’ said Pepe. ‘I was just going to ask them that. My rates are very cheap. You will not find better.’

  Isabel looked at Nick and he nodded. They were too tired to move on and look for shelter. The innkeeper seemed friendly. Of course, one could never be sure, but it was yet another chance they would have to take.

  Sixteen

  The sleeping accommodation at the inn consisted of two low-ceilinged lofts, each ventilated by a small unglazed window. Nick, who was about ten centimetres taller than Cristóbal, was unable to stand upright.

  ‘There are some advantages in being small,’ said Cristóbal, whose cap just cleared the ceiling. He had kept it on throughout the evening. He sat down on his straw mattress and pulled off his boots, releasing a strong smell of stale feet into the room. Then he lay back, with his hands linked behind his head.

  Nick, aware that his own feet would not smell any better, proceeded to do the same. He had a huge broken blister on one heel and by now had run out of plasters. Pepe might have some surgical spirit. He was being very kind to them; he’d given them each a large glass of sherry after their meal, on the house. ‘Drink it down, it’ll do you good. You look like two coiled springs ready to go ping!’ After they’d drunk it down he refilled their glasses and by the time they’d come up to bed they’d been feeling woozy. Pepe had said it would give them a good night’s sleep.

  ‘Hope I won’t snore,’ said Cristóbal.

  ‘Shouldn’t think I’d hear you,’ said Nick.

  ‘I’ve been in a room with five men, all snoring their heads off, like trains. Nearly bored a hole in my skull.’

  Nick was about to lie down himself when the bell rang downstairs. They heard Pepe, humming a tune, go to answer it.

  ‘Ah, buenas noches, señores!’ Good evening, gentlemen!

  ‘Someone’s late coming in,’ said Nick, his anxiety returning.

  The men at the door were not looking for accommodation.

  ‘It’s the Guard!’ said Cristóbal, shooting upright.

  Nick sat very still. Isabel was in the other loft, at the back of the building, and might not hear what was going on. Should he go through and warn her? They couldn’t make a run for it, though – jump out of the window, or anything like that. Any such crazy action was out of the question.

  The guards were asking about a truck that they wanted to inspect.

  ‘That’s mine,’ groaned Cristóbal. ‘I’d better go down.’

  When he’d gone Nick crept through to Isabel’s room to tell her what was happening. ‘But don’t worry, it’s Cristóbal’s truck they’re interested in.’ He went back and stood on the landing so that he could hear what was going on downstairs. The voices were no longer audible. They must have moved up to the road where the truck was parked. Nick hoped Cristóbal was not going to land in trouble.

  A few minutes later the guards and Cristóbal were back in the hall below.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Pepe.

  ‘Seems to be,’ one of the guards replied.

  ‘Good, good. My lodgers can always be relied on to be on the right side of the law. They would never flout it.’

  ‘What about yourself, Pepe?’

  ‘You know Pepe better than that!’

  ‘Oh yes, we know Pepe! You haven’t seen a boy and a girl, have you?’

  Nick thought his heart would stop.

  ‘What kind of a boy and girl? There are a number in the village. My sister’s girl is thirteen and she has a boy of ten –’

  ‘Girl’s called Isabel Morales. Sixteen. Long straight black hair. Dark eyes. She’s the daughter of a sergeant in the Guard.’

  ‘Ah, ha! Run off with her boyfriend, has she?’

  ‘Some boyfriend! Girls can be so stupid. He’s a spy. A Scotsman. Name of Nicolás Maceentos. He’s tall, about one metre eighty, dark hair, brown eyes, looks Spanish, speaks Spanish.’

  ‘I cannot say I have come across a Scottish spy. Does he wear that skirt they favour in his country?’

  Thank you, Pepe, Nick whispered silently.

  ‘Hardly! Not if he wants to pass as a spy. We’d see him coming then, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘True, officer. Your mind is sharper than mine, that is obvious. That is why I am only a poor innkeeper.’

  ‘Lay off the soft soap, Pepe, and keep your eyes open in case they should happen to wander into your field of vision. How about one for the road before we go?’

  ‘Of course, señores! Forgive my lack of hospitality. Do please come in and grace my humble bar!’

  The voices moved into the hall below, then into the bar.

  A moment later Cristóbal came back upstairs. ‘Bastards! I had to give them a couple of skins.’ Then, resettling his cap, lay down again. Nick stayed where he was, sitting on his mattress, listening for the sound of the guards taking their leave.

  ‘Buenas noches, señores.’ Pepe’s voice floated out into the night after them. ‘Sleep well.’ Then he closed the door and threw the bolt. ‘And may you never waken again,’ he added softly.

  Relieved, Nick lay down.

  ‘Shall I put out the candle?’ asked Cristóbal.

  ‘Please.’

  Cristóbal leant over and with a puff extinguished the candle. A quiff of acrid smoke rose in the air.

  ‘Pepe could do to get himself a couple more lamps. One of these days a drunk’s going to knock a candle over and burn the whole place down.’

  The unglazed window was letting in light from the moon. Nick stared at the shadows on the ceiling, wondering if he would be able to sleep. He was sweating a little again from the fever.

  ‘Are you going far, lad?’ asked Cristóbal.

  ‘South.’

  ‘I could give you a lift as far as Madrid. You and the girl.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I’m making an early start. I’ll wake you.’

  ‘Thank you! Thank you very much!’

  ‘Glad to help.’

  ‘Cristóbal, do you think it’s all right for us to stay? I wouldn’t want to get Pepe into trouble?’

  ‘Sure. Just go to sleep. They won’t be back. Not tonight anyway.’

  Nick was drifting off when he heard a loud bang. He sat up at once. ‘Was that a shot?’ There came another, and then another, in rapid succession.

  ‘You often hear shots in the night,’ said Pepe. ‘That’s when they carry out their executions. Just be glad it’s not you.’

  It was a long time before Nick did sleep.

  Cristóbal roused Nick while it was still dark and he went to waken Isabel. ‘We’re getting a lift to Madrid. I have the address of a contact there, someon
e who can help.’

  When he returned Cristóbal was stripping off his shirt, having first removed his cap. Nick saw that he was bald and his scalp criss-crossed with hideous scars, as were his back and shoulders. War wounds? He wouldn’t ask. Cristóbal also had a scattering of small red lumps round his waistband.

  Nick scratched his own waist. ‘I think I’ve got some bites too.’

  ‘Bed bugs. These old fondas are jumping with them. Here, take this soap and see how many you can swat.’

  Nick counted ten black marks before washing them off in the basin of water on the dresser, but it was not likely he would have got them all.

  Pepe was already up, brewing something that tasted vaguely of coffee. ‘It’s good, eh? I made it with acorns. Who could tell the difference!’ They were each given a small piece of bread to dunk in it. And then they were ready for the road. Cristóbal paid for his accommodation and left to check his truck.

  ‘How much do we owe you, Pepe?’ asked Isabel.

  ‘Nothing. It’s on the house.’ Isabel protested but Pepe refused to take a single peseta. ‘You only had some soup and a little piece of sausage. No, keep your money. You might need it. With Cristóbal it’s different – he gets some money from his company for his lodging.’

  Pepe saw them out on to the road, after doing a scout around first to make sure the coast was clear. ‘Not a sign. They don’t usually get out of their beds this early, especially when they’ve been busy in the night. You heard them?’

  They nodded.

  Nick held out his hand. ‘Thank you for everything, Pepe. I wish we could repay you.’

  ‘Some day, some day! When you are rich and have made your fortune and are driving past in your big motor, you can stop in to say hello to Pepe the poor innkeeper and pay me. We have to help each other when we can, no?’

  Isabel gave him a hug.

  ‘She is beautiful, eh?’ Pepe winked at Nick. ‘You are a lucky young man.’ So Pepe had guessed that they were not brother and sister. Perhaps anyone observing them closely would realize that. Isabel had turned her head away so that Nick could not see her face.

  Cristóbal was holding open the back door of his truck. It was not much more than a van and it promised a rocky ride, especially with the roads being in such poor condition.

  ‘Sorry about the smell, but at least they make a soft cushion.’ The interior was full of animal skins, some goat, mostly sheep. Isabel and Nick climbed in and Cristóbal closed the door.

  The journey was difficult, what with the itching of their flea bites, the jolting of the truck, the lack of light and air and, more than anything else, the overpowering stench of the skins. Nick was thinking they might suffocate before they reached Madrid, when Cristóbal opened the door and released them into the fresh air. They were in the middle of flat countryside, with no buildings in their immediate sight except for a broken-down windmill with sagging arms. They staggered over to the verge at the side of the road and Isabel promptly vomited into the undergrowth.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she muttered when she’d straightened up.

  Cristóbal was concerned. Did they still want to carry on with him? He’d understand if they didn’t.

  Nick and Isabel consulted but soon realized that their only other option would be to start walking again. To try for another lift could be tricky. ‘We’ve got to go on,’ said Isabel, whose colour was returning after a drink of water and a break in the sunshine. Nick asked Cristóbal if they could stop more often and he agreed to take a five-minute break every hour. And after four hours they’d make a longer stop to eat the bread and cheese Pepe had given them.

  The hours passed painfully slowly. Nick tried to think about Scotland but failed. He tried not to scratch but he failed on that score too. After their lunch stop they wondered if they’d be able to get back in among the foul-smelling skins, but they did.

  When at last they arrived in Madrid they almost fell out of the back of the truck. Once they’d thanked Cristóbal he took off straight away, leaving them in a street of high, dark tenements which blotted out the sun but trapped the heat. At the far end the buildings dwindled away into a sad heap of rubble. A family was camping in the ruins of one that had half collapsed. The rooms were open to the elements and visible to the world. The floors lay at a tilted angle. Rotting sandbags littered the pavement. Children played in a crater in the middle of the road. They seemed to be playing at boats, pretending they were sailing on a hard grey sea. Their high-pitched cries filled the air. On a step sat a man with both trouser legs pinned back at the knee. Close by, another leant against a wall, a pair of crutches parked beside him. Both men wore black armbands.

  Isabel and Nick stood, debating which way to go. Nick knew his contact’s address but had no idea where that would be. Madrid was a very big city. Isabel had been here once, to visit her favourite aunt, her mother’s younger sister, but that was a few years ago.

  ‘We could try to make our way there if we’re stuck,’ she said.

  ‘You could, but I don’t think it would be a good idea for me.’

  ‘Aunt Ana would be on my side. She dislikes my father.’

  Nick wondered if anyone liked him, even his wife. He did not tell Isabel what he was thinking, of course. Much of the time he had no idea what went on in her mind. Sometimes he was tempted to ask her, but he never had. She was not the kind of girl to chatter and spill out everything that came into her head. But they did not have to talk to feel comfortable together.

  Some of the passers-by were wrinkling their noses and giving them a wide berth. They had to hope that the smell on their clothes would gradually fade in the fresh air. Not that the air was all that fresh. A nearby factory chimney was belching out smoke.

  They began to walk. They turned into another, similar street. A gaggle of children, some of the ones who’d been playing in the crater, had come after them. They were barefoot and their clothes hung in rags. They danced like dervishes on the pavement in front of them, flicking their fingers and holding out cupped palms. ‘Por favor, por favor!’ Please, please!

  Isabel and Nick shook their heads and held on to their knapsacks and bedrolls. ‘We have nothing,’ they said. Nada. The children did not believe it but gradually they dropped back.

  Isabel stopped the next passer-by. The woman, who was elderly, put her head to the side and a hand to her ear. Isabel had to shout the address out three times, which made Nick feel nervous. The woman finally said, ‘Never heard of it,’ and shuffled on, her empty shopping bag trailing on the ground behind her.

  A man appeared then at their elbow, saying he’d happened to overhear and that he knew the street. His mother lived there. It was only ten to fifteen minutes’ walk. He was going that way so he escorted them, chatting, asking where they came from and if they knew Madrid. They began to feel a little uneasy, thinking he was asking too many questions. They were relieved when he said, ‘Adiós,’ and left them to go into a building.

  They found the street, lined, again, with tenements. A new swarm of barefoot children came buzzing about them like bees round a honeycomb. Por favor! Por favor! Once more, the cry went up.

  ‘Seventy-two,’ Nick mouthed to Isabel over the tops of the children’s heads. ‘Top floor.’

  A few of the children followed them into the dark stairway but gave up before they reached the fourth floor. Isabel and Nick kept on going. Different smells assailed them here: a combination of cat, rancid cooking oil and communal lavatories.

  On the top landing there were two doors, both scabby, neither of which bore a name. One had a spyhole, roughly carved into the wood.

  ‘I think that should be it,’ said Nick.

  He waited a moment before raising his knuckles. It was nerve-racking, this moment of arrival at what was assumed to be a ‘safe house’, when nothing could ever be totally safe. The contact might have moved away or, worse, been taken away by the Guard or the secret police.

  ‘What if it’s the wrong one?’ asked Isabel.

/>   ‘Then we run,’ said Nick.

  Seventeen

  Nick knocked, giving three short taps and two longer ones. Isabel waited beside him, with her head cocked to one side. Someone was on the other side of the door; they could sense it. Nick took a step back so that whoever was peering into the little hole would be able to have a good look at him.

  The door opened a couple of inches, secured by a chain. ‘Yes?’ No one was visible, but the voice was a man’s.

  ‘I’m looking for Salvador.’

  ‘Salvador? Should I know him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘So, who are you?’

  ‘The son of Sebastián Torres.’

  ‘Should I know him as well?’

  ‘I’ve been told so.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Jean-Luc the Frenchman.’

  ‘And this Sebastián Torres, where is he from?’

  Isabel was looking uneasy and mouthing, ‘Let’s go,’ but Nick held up his hand, knowing as he did that it was necessary to go through this interrogation. ‘Scotland,’ he said to the man behind the door.

  ‘You say you are his son?’

  ‘Yes. My name is Nicolás. My mother’s name is Mairi.’

  ‘All right.’ The chain rattled, and the door opened. A man in his early forties, about the same age as Nick’s father, stood on the threshold. He recoiled for a moment, then he welcomed them and invited them in.

  ‘This is my friend Isabel,’ said Nick.

  ‘Isabel, I am pleased to meet you.’ Salvador inclined his head.

  ‘We won’t shake hands,’ she said and explained why they smelt as they did.

  ‘It can’t have been a very sweet journey!’ Salvador laughed and said that he would find them clean clothes. ‘Please, do come in.’